


The House Guest

by Shippershape



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, Abduction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Living Together, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:19:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 98,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke loves her best friend, so when Octavia's brother needs a place to stay, Clarke doesn't think twice about offering up her loft. It's no trouble at all, that is until Clarke realizes what a surly, arrogant prick he is. When a few days turns into a few weeks it's too late to back out, and now she finds herself stuck with an unwelcome roommate.</p><p>PART 2 (Ch. 20-27): The second half of this story deals with some darker content. Someone from Clarke's past comes back to haunt her, and neither she nor Bellamy realize that there's something more sinister standing between them and their possible reconciliation than either of them could have predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh my god.” Clarke woke with a groan, her mouth like sandpaper. “Why do I do this?” She wondered aloud, making her way to the bathroom. She came into contact with a very unmoving wall, and the pounding in her head kicked up a notch. Damn. She had forgotten she was at Octavia’s.

Stepping sideways through the door, she let out a loud moan as the daylight flooding the hallway seared into her eyes.

“Morning, sunshine.” Clarke peeked through the fingers she had thrown up to protect her eyes, and saw an already dressed Octavia smiling up at her. She scowled.

“How do you do that?” She asked.

“What?”

“You drank at least as much as I did last night. How are you already up and dressed? And… alive?” Clarke stared suspiciously at her. Octavia smiled again, this time a little mischievously. “O, you didn’t.” The answering laugh told her all she needed to know. Ever since they’d met a year and a half ago Octavia had been a wild child. There was the drinking, and some pot, both of which Clarke had not only tolerated but joined in. But some of the parties were wilder and Octavia had an appetite for life that she supplemented with narcotics. Eventually, Clarke had been concerned enough to intervene, and Octavia had left the drugs behind. Until last night apparently.

“Don’t worry, it’s not what you think. It’s some kind of caffeine ginseng combination. A hangover miracle cure.” Octavia held out a bottle, and Clarke grabbed it. She skimmed the label, most of which was in Spanish. Eyeing it dubiously, she looked back up at her friend.

“I can’t read this. “ She left the pills on the table in the hallway, and finished her painful shuffle to the bathroom. Glancing up into the mirror, she repressed another groan. Her make-up was smudged under her eyes, clearly she hadn’t been lucid enough to take it off. Her hair had actually held up pretty well, but there was something on her neck something that looked suspiciously like… “OCTAVIA!” She stormed out of the bathroom, anger mixing with anxiety.

“What?” Octavia was in the kitchen, a pan of French toast searing in front of her. It smelled both delicious and slightly nauseating. Clarke walked up to her, yanking her hair off of her neck.

“What is this?” She pointed to the dark spot on her neck.

“That’s a hickey.”

“Yes, thank you. I don’t remember anything after we left Ark last night, should I even ask where I got this?” Clarke frowned, waiting for an answer. As much as she loved to have fun, she liked to remember having it, especially when she was waking up with hickeys.

“Oh relax. I gave that to you. We were pretty drunk, I think it was at Phoenix? Or maybe Zero G? No, wait…” Octavia’s musings were cut short by the sound of a door slamming. Alarmed, Clarke grabbed the nearest thing she could find. She looked down to find herself holding a ladle.

“Did you not lock the door?” She hissed. Octavia frowned.

“No, I did, which means that it must be-” Before she could finish her sentence the mystery intruder rounded the corner to the kitchen, pausing when he saw Octavia and Clarke. Octavia threw herself at him, letting out a yell. “Bell! What are you doing here?” He caught her in a hug, swinging her easily, and Clarke couldn’t help but notice the muscles in his forearms as he did so.

“I’m in town for a few days. I couldn’t come through without seeing my little sis.” He laughed, setting her down. His eyes drifted to Clarke, and she suddenly realized she was wearing nothing but a white tank top, which she was pretty sure was see through, and her very sexy but very inappropriate for this situation black underwear. Deciding it was too late to do anything about it, and too proud to make an embarrassed dash for the bedroom, Clarke stared back at him. He was hot, she wasn’t going to deny it. He was tall, probably around 6’3, with dark curly hair and intense brown eyes. He looked lean, but Clarke could tell that he was well muscled under his t-shirt.

“You’re Octavia’s brother?” She had heard a little about him, but other than occasionally complaining about how overprotective he was, Octavia didn’t mention him much. He nodded, eyes travelling slowly down her body in a way that she couldn’t help but appreciate. Eventually his gaze made it back up to her face.

“Yeah. Bellamy Blake.” He held out a hand to her. Uncrossing her arms from her chest, Clarke grabbed it. A smile flitted across her face, and she laughed. Bellamy looked confused.

“Sorry.” She shrugged. “It just seems like a formal introduction, considering.” She gestured at herself, but he just continued to stare, straightfaced. “I’m Clarke.” Octavia cleared her throat.

“Bell, why don’t you help me with the French toast. Clarke, why don’t you go put on some pants?” Octavia threw a meaningful look at the bedroom. Sighing, Clarke complied. Octavia was hardly a prude, but there was a weird energy in the kitchen, and Clarke couldn’t blame her for wanting her friends to be less naked around her brother. Deciding to give Octavia and her brother some time to catch up, Clarke grabbed a shower before changing and heading back to the kitchen. She threw on a pair of yoga pants that she’d leant Octavia months ago, and a McGill University t-shirt. She found Octavia and Bellamy sitting on the couch, arguing over something on tv.

“It’s trash, O, we’re not watching that.”

“It’s my tv, go watch your boring shows at your own house.”

“Seriously that stuff will rot your brain.”

“Good thing I have no brains to ro-”

Clarke cleared her throat as she made her way to the couch, amused. She was an only child, and she’d always been a little envious of the people around her with siblings. As she’d gotten older the desire had faded, and for the most part she was just glad she didn’t have anyone stealing her clothes or barging in without knocking. All of that had changed when she met Octavia, but she hadn’t minded. It was like having a sister, and after her father died a few years ago Clarke could use all the family she could get.

“Oh, hey. We left you some French toast, it’s on the stove.” Octavia turned back to her brother, but he was staring at Clarke. Again.

“What?” Clarke glanced down self-consciously.

“Uh nothing.” Bellamy shook his head like he was trying to shake water from his ears. “It’s just, that’s my shirt.” He nodded at her chest.

“Oh.” Clarke looked at it. Shrugged. “Sorry. Did you want me to change?” He hesitated, and Clarke started to feel a little uncomfortable, did he honestly care about a shirt he hadn’t seen in months?  He finally shook his head.

“It’s fine.” He muttered, and Clarke just nodded stiffly. Octavia slid over, making room for Clarke on the couch.

“Grab some food and get over here. You’re the deciding vote, are we watching Dumbest Criminals or the news?” Clarke rolled her eyes.

“You really think you’re going to get Octavia to watch the news? How well do you know your sister?” She smirked at Bellamy and dropped into the seat beside Octavia. He was still looking at her, but he turned his gaze to the tv.

“Fine. I can’t believe you watch this crap, I thought med students were supposed to be intelligent.” Bellamy switched back to the desired program, and Clarke tried to hide her surprise. Clearly the Blakes had been talking about her. Ignoring his blatant insult, and his attitude in general, Clarke settled in to watch a man wearing nylon tights on his head try to steal a swing set.

 A few hours later, Clarke finished helping clean up the kitchen, and was grabbing her things from the night before when she heard the siblings arguing again.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know you were coming-”

“It’s fine, O, I’ll get a hotel, I should have given you more notice.”

Clarke walked in on them, having changed back into her dress from the club. She didn’t mind the walk of shame look anymore, she was beginning to think she might as well uphold the reputation she’d gotten ever since becoming friends with Octavia. She was a mostly well respected surgical intern with a good apartment courtesy of her father’s money. After he died he’d left her more than enough money to go to school, and while she loved her mother Clarke had wanted to live on her own. Deciding she’d be living in the area for a while, through pre-med and medical studies, her internship, Clarke had invested in a big loft in downtown Vancouver, close to Vancouver General where she was finishing her internship.

“Everything okay?” Clarke asked, leaning down to persuade her sore feet back into her heels. When she looked back up Octavia had a strange look on her face, one that always lead to her asking for a favor.

“Actually, no.” Octavia said, at the same time her brother shook his head.

“Yes.” Bellamy insisted, glaring at his sister. “It’s fine.” Intrigued, Clarke waited.

“You know how Lincoln’s coming to town.” Octavia said slowly, giving Clarke some kind of weird, meaningful look from behind Bellamy’s head. Clarke was starting to get a bad feeling. “Well, I told him he could stay here.” Clarke already knew all of this, Octavia had been seeing this guy Lincoln for a few months long-distance, and she wouldn’t shut up about him finally coming to visit. She still didn’t see the problem. “Well, Bellamy here didn’t book a hotel because he figured he’d be crashing here, and as much as I’d love to have him, I don’t really have enough room.” Oh. Clarke was beginning to get it. In fact, it was all too clear. Octavia had more than enough room, but the real issue was that having Bellamy around would almost certainly put a wrench in her plans to spend the entire weekend in bed with her boyfriend. Clarke sighed.

“Okay.” She frowned, still a little lost. Suddenly it hit her. “Oh. Bellamy can stay with me.” She said, realizing what Octavia was leading up to. Bellamy was looking incredibly uncomfortable, and Clarke smiled. “Of course he can, if that’s what you’re asking. You know I’ve got more than enough room, plus I’ll barely be around.” She cocked her head, appraising him. “You’re more than welcome, if you want.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed and irritated. Clarke didn’t know what his problem was, and she didn’t particularly like him, but any family of Octavia’s was family to her, and she genuinely didn’t spend enough time at home to be bothered by him.

“I can just get a hotel, it’s really not that big of a deal.” Octavia kicked him, and he stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “What is your problem?”

“I want you close. Besides, this way you don’t have to pay for a hotel, and you can actually get to know one of my friends. Maybe once you get to know her you’ll stop worrying about me so much. Clarke’s good people.” Bellamy looked between the two girls, trapped. It was obvious that he didn’t want to argue with Octavia, but Clarke suspected he had issues with letting people do him favors. She could understand that, she was the same.

“Um, okay.” He blinked at Clarke. “Sure, that would be great. If you’re sure I’m not imposing.” Clarke shook her head.

“No, it’s totally fine. I don’t spend that much time at home anyways. I’m heading home now, if you wanted to drop off your stuff.” She held up her keys. Bellamy nodded.

“Sure. I’ll grab my suitcase.” He disappeared down the hall to get his things and Clarke turned to stare at her friend.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I don’t think he likes me very much.” Octavia just laughed.

“He likes you fine. Actually, probably more than fine considering the way he was checking you out in the kitchen, but he’s an asshole to everyone. He’ll warm up eventually.” Clarke wanted to reply that they only had a few days, and that she doubted he would even finish defrosting by then, but suddenly he reappeared, and she bit her tongue.

“Okay, I’m good.” He had thrown on a leather jacket, giving him a weird but very hot bad boy vibe, and Clarke found herself momentarily thrown.

“I… uh, cool. I guess we’re gonna head out, bye Tav.” Clarke gave her friend a little wave, then turned to the door. Bellamy followed, and they made her way out to the parking lot.

“So, how long have you known my sister?” Bellamy asked. Clarke was a little surprised that he was even talking to her given how surly he’d been all morning.

“About a year and a half. I was working at the hospital when I met her.” Clarke paused, unsure how much Bellamy knew about his sister’s partying.

“When she overdosed.” It wasn’t a question. Clarke sighed.

“Yeah. I was doing rounds with my resident, and we got a little time off. I was just walking by her room and I looked in and she was just sitting there. She was alone, and she looked so young, and I just thought she looked lost. Anyways, the next day it was the same thing, and the day after that. There was no one with her, so I went in, and I asked if she needed anything, and started eating my lunch in there. She was out within a week but we kept in touch.” They’d made it to the car by the time Clarke was finished her story, and slid the key into the door. Sometimes she wished her car had one of those fobs that could unlock it remotely, but she was too attached to ever trade hers in for a newer model. Bellamy had been listening quietly, but as he realized the car was hers, he let out a noise of surprise.

“This is yours?” He whistled appreciatively. It was a ’69 Dodge Charger, and it was her pride and joy. It had been her father’s, and though Clarke knew next to nothing about cars, she had a good friend in her mechanic, and the car was in pristine condition. She smiled at Bellamy.

“It was my dad’s.” She slid in, unlocking his door. He shoved his suitcase in the back, glancing around the interior.

“So, what are the odds I could talk you into letting me drive this thing?” Clarke just laughed, pressing her foot to the gas. The drive was a short one, even when she wasn’t showing off exactly what her car could do, and they were there in minutes. As she stepped out onto the pavement in front of her building, she felt Bellamy looking at her again.

“What?” He shook his head.

“I just didn’t realize you were rich. The car should have been my first clue.” Clarke scowled. She hated being called rich. All her life she’d been mocked because her mother was a surgeon and her father was a successful engineer, and the crowd she’d hung out with hadn’t been quite as well off as her. She’d been called highborn, a snob, privileged.

“I’m not, really. Most of my money’s either tied up in that loft or gone to school.” Bellamy rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say, princess.” Spluttering, Clarke watched as he made his way to her door, peering around as though he’d never seen a building with a doorman before. As much as she loved Octavia, Clarke was beginning to have doubts about this arrangement. What had she gotten herself into?

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

The next morning came a little easier. Clarke woke in her own bed, with no hangover, and found that she felt almost rested. She crawled out of her sheets, wincing as the cold air hit her bare legs, and shuffled toward the kitchen. First things first, she needed coffee. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen Clarke realized she could actually smell it already. Frowning she walked over to find a full pot.

“Wh-” She shook her head, had she already made some and fallen back asleep? Just as she was reaching for a mug someone spoke behind her.

“Good morning.”

 Screaming, Clarke spun around, holding the mug in front of her like a weapon. Her spiking pulse calmed a little when she saw Bellamy standing there, the events of the past day slowly coming back.

“Oh.” She said weakly, setting the mug down. “Good morning.” She turned, trying to pretend she hadn’t just had a small heart attack, but she could tell by the way he was smiling at her that he wasn’t going to let it go.

“We should probably stop meeting like this.” He was smirking, and it really shouldn’t have been attractive, but it was. Clarke forced a smile.

“I guess I forgot you were here.” The grin dropped off his face and she immediately felt bad. She hadn’t meant to sound like she didn’t want him here. “But hey, I could get used to this whole waking up to a full pot of coffee thing.” She amended, pouring herself a cup. She saw him relax, and sighed internally. “What are you doing today?” He looked at her, in that intense way that seemed to pool heat low in her belly, and she momentarily found herself lost. Apparently that was going to happen often around Bellamy.

“I’ve got a few errands to run, then a meeting at one.” He shrugged. Clarke found herself curious about his life. The more he held back, the more she wanted to know.

“What exactly do you do?” She poured him a mug to match her own and slid it over to him, hoping to coax out a little information. It worked.

“I’m a writer.” It wasn’t what she had expected. He seemed to catch onto that, cocking his head as he studied her reaction.

“What kind of writer?” Clarke asked, sipping at the hot coffee. Between her first hit of caffeine, and her early morning scare, she was wide awake.  

“Nothing you’d have read.” He told her, finishing his coffee. He dropped his mug in the sink, turning toward the guest room. Clarke frowned, clearly his wall was back up and she wouldn’t get anything else out of him. She silently gave thanks that this was a temporary arrangement, because really who wanted such a surly stranger in their home all the time? Still, she watched him go, admiring the way his jeans fit him. Okay he was surly. But he was also very, very hot. She turned to the sink, placing her mug next to his, and wondered when the last time she’d woken up with a guy in her place was. She couldn’t remember. It wasn’t that she was a prude, but she had intimacy issues, she knew that, and she was more of a sneak out in the middle of the night type of girl these days. She’d been in a long term relationship for years, and when it ended she’d found herself with no desire to rush back into anything serious.

She showered, not bothering to get dressed in the bathroom, and surveyed her closet clad only in a towel. Bellamy was a guest here, and a relatively unobtrusive one from what she could tell, so she wasn’t going to start changing her habits to make him more comfortable. She had made a habit of not getting dressed until the very last minute to avoid getting food or makeup on her clothes. Still, she wasn’t an exhibitionist despite the way they’d met, so she threw on a nice pair of slacks and a blouse before venturing back out into the living room.

Clarke had furnished her apartment with a mixture of high-end contemporary pieces (courtesy of her mother) and antiques that were more true to her own taste. The result was an eclectic collection of mixed woods and colors, and that suited her just fine. She’d never thought much about how it looked to an outsider, but as she watched Bellamy wander around inspecting the place she felt a little self-conscious. He looked up as she approached, the sound of her heels on the hardwood a detriment to her stealth. He was hovering beside one of her paintings, a breathtaking rendering of the harbor at night.

“I like this.” He pointed at the painting. Clarke smiled. Everyone appreciated art in their own way, and she would never understand why some people were so snobby about it. She could hold her own in a party full of art critics, but she, like Bellamy, knew what she liked. The rest didn’t matter.

“Me too.” She crossed the room, grabbed her coat off the rack, and was just untucking her hair from under its collar when she heard Bellamy directly behind her. She turned around, and found him frowning at her.

“That painting is really familiar. Who’s it by?” He looked frustrated.

“Just a local artist.” Clarke shrugged. “Octavia has one by the same artist in her bedroom, the one with the downtown skyline? That’s probably why it’s familiar.” A light went on behind his eyes, and the recognition soothed whatever irritation the mystery had been causing.

“You heading out?” He asked, gesturing at her coat. She nodded.

“Yeah I have rounds today, I’ll probably be back around eight.” She glanced at the wall clock, it was just after seven and she was going to be late. “I left a key for you on the counter, and I’ll let Marcus know you’re staying with me.”

“Marcus?”

“The doorman. I’ve gotta run, I’ll see you later. Good luck with your meeting.” She threw him a quick smile before rushing out the door.

 

The day was proving to be longer than expected, Clarke was still a little tired from the long weekend of partying, and her patients seemed to be more stubborn than usual.

“Maggie, you have to-”

“No!” The older woman pushed her hands away as Clarke tried to lift the bandages on her stomach.

“I need to change this, it’s going to get infected-”

“It’s a scam! I know what you’re doing!” Maggie shouted, the hysteria apparent in her eyes. Clarke sighed, trying to calm her down.

“Maggie, it’s not a scam, I’m trying to help. I just need to change your bandage, that’s all.” The older woman continued to struggle, but a couple units of phenobarbital later her dressings were fresh and Clarke was more than ready to go home.

When she’d first started med school she had loved it. With her mother’s help she had become top of her class, and being proficient at something always seemed to make it more enjoyable. But the farther she got into her career, the more she began to doubt that it was what she truly wanted. She had a knack for it, that was obvious, and her patient care was second only to her surgical skills, but she just didn’t enjoy it the same way she used to. She’d always loved art, had doodled in every notebook at school until her algebra notes were all but illegible. As a kid she’d dreamed of being an artist, but her parents were scientists and they looked down on the arts and Clarke had quickly learned to keep her mouth shut and charcoals hidden. Her father had been a little more indulgent than her mother, sneaking her art supplies, but he’d backed up her mother’s enthusiasm that Clarke go to medical school, and there was a part of her that craved independence too much to take a gamble on her future. With her connections in the world of medicine and her natural ability Clarke was pretty much guaranteed a residency, and then a fellowship, at any hospital in Canada. That meant income, and income meant she could pay back her parents and leave their opinions behind with their money.

The painting Bellamy had admired was one of hers, Octavia had seen it a few months after they met and loved it enough that Clarke had painted one of Octavia’s favourite view of downtown. Clarke didn’t tell anyone about her painting, it was done just for her and the fear that art was a sure road to failure had been distinctly ingrained in her as a child. So she kept it private. Still, as her days at the hospital got longer and her temper with her patients got shorter she found the question of whether or not this was what she truly wanted popping up more often.

She changed out of her scrubs back into her clothes and looked in the mirror. She looked haggard, as she usually did coming off of a shift, but then again she didn’t normally have to go home to a well-muscled but abrasive roommate. Sighing, she ran a brush through her hair and patted a little concealer on the dark circles that seemed to reside permanently under her eyes. She eyed her reflection with resignation. It would have to do. Deciding it really didn’t matter how looked in front of Bellamy anyways, Clarke made her way to the parking lot. She was halfway home by the time her stomach started grumbling at her, and she debated whether or not she was too sick of fast food to grab a couple cartoons of veggie chow fun and some egg rolls. Eventually, her hunger won out, and she tapped the button on her steering wheel to activate voice dialing. She entered the command for her land line, hoping Bellamy would be comfortable enough to answer it. He picked up on the third ring.

“Princess Clarke’s phone.” He sounded completely at ease. She frowned.

“Really? That’s how you answer my phone?”

 He laughed.

“You have caller ID. I figured you were either calling to talk to me or to leave yourself a message, and no one really leaves themselves messages anymore. I took a risk.” Clarke could practically hear his smirk over the phone.

“Right. I’m going to pick up some Chinese food on the way home, do you want anything? The egg rolls at this place are sinful.” There was a pause on the other end, and Clarke tapped her finger on the steering wheel impatiently. She was starving, and wanted to get this order in as soon as possible. The Phoenix had the best Chinese food in town, and it was almost time for the dinner rush. If she didn’t get her order in now it would be at least forty five minutes.

“I actually already ate.” He finally answered. Clarke glanced at the clock and her dash and realized it was almost nine-thirty. She often forgot that other people had schedules that allowed them to eat dinner at a normal hour.

“Oh, right. Okay.”

“I made spaghetti. There’s enough for you, you know, if your heart isn’t set on those egg rolls.”

Clarke stared at the speaker in her car, caught off guard.

“You cooked?”

“Yeah, I mean, I hope that’s okay. I figured it would be all cleaned up by the time you got home, so…”

“No. Spaghetti sounds perfect. I’ll be home in ten.” She tapped to end the call, spending the rest of the ride hoping Bellamy wasn’t as bad a cook as her last boyfriend.

 

The smell hit her as she walked through the door, a delicious mixture of tomatoes, garlic and oregano.

“Wow.” She walked into the kitchen, closing her eyes to soak in the aroma. She opened her eyes and spotted Bellamy at the sink, sleeves rolled up as he washed her saucepan. There was something intimately domestic about watching someone do the dishes in your own kitchen, and Clarke once again found herself distracted by him. She was starting to think that if she was going to make it through this weekend she would have to find someone to take care of her mounting sexual frustration. Sleeping with Bellamy would be too complicated, and she got the distinct sense he didn’t like her much anyways. He looked good, and the kitchen smelled good, and the whole thing was making her confused and more than a little lusty.

“Hey.” Bellamy turned just enough to give her a little nod. “The spaghetti’s in the fridge. There’s garlic bread in the oven too, I figured it’s better hot.” Clarke practically leaped toward the food, grabbing the container out of the fridge and throwing some in a bowl. Deciding it would take too long to wait for the microwave, she grabbed a piece of garlic bread while the microwave counted down. An indecent noise of approval slipped out as she swallowed the first bite, and her eyes drifted shut. She really had been starving, and the bread was the best she’d had in ages. She opened her eyes to find Bellamy smiling at her in amusement, the sound of a sink draining telling her he’d finished the dishes.

“Sorry. I’m really hungry.” He just grinned. The microwave beeped behind her and Clarke pulled the bowl out with a hiss. It burned her fingers as she set it on the counter, and she stuck her thumb in her mouth, staring at the bowl reproachfully.

“You alright?” He didn’t look too concerned, but then again Clarke was starting to get the sense that Bellamy was never overly concerned about anything. He had the kind of sullen nonchalance that most women loved and Clarke found infuriating. She’d always thought that being afraid to show your emotions was a sign of immaturity.

“I’m fine.” She stirred the noodles with her other hand, mouth watering as the steam carried the scent up to her nose. “God this smells good.” She popped the first forkful in her mouth and hummed happily as she chewed. Bellamy watched her, that same cocky grin on his face. She didn’t care. She beamed back at him, the high of finally having a meal that didn’t come out of a box making her giddy.

“You like it?”

Clarke wouldn’t have taken Bellamy for the type to ask, but she also wouldn’t have guessed he could, or would, cook like this either. She nodded, forcing the obscene amount of food in her mouth down her throat.

“It’s delicious. I haven’t had a home cooked meal in ages. That French toast was the only thing I’ve eaten in days that didn’t come out of a carton.” She walked back to her fridge, pulling out a beer. She held the blue bottle up, offering one to Bellamy. He nodded. She grabbed both, popping the tops off with the bottle opener on her fridge door, and slid one over to Bellamy. He inspected the bottle before taking a swig.

“This is nice beer.” He looked surprised. Clarke considered being offended, but as she shoved another bite of pasta in her mouth she decided to forgive him.

“Mhmm.” She nodded, continuing to eat. He was still watching her, but the look of amusement had changed to something looked suspiciously like judgment. “What?”

“I-nothing.” Clarke narrowed her eyes.

“You’re judging me.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” She waved her fork at him. “I have been on my feet since eight o clock this morning. I worked a twelve hour shift during which I assisted on two surgeries and had like eight really difficult patients. I didn’t have time to eat. So I’m hungry.” Bellamy frowned.

“You haven’t eaten at all?”

“I’m eating now.”

“You didn’t even eat breakfast.”

Clarke paused, her fork hovering over the almost empty bowl of pasta. There was something on his face, something like concern, and it didn’t fit comfortably in the empty banter they’d established.

“I-No. But I had a power bar around one.” It was a lie, she’d had a few bites of the power bar that her resident had shoved at her but it tasted like hot chocolate powder and kale mixed together and she’d thrown the rest in a trash can. Clarke was a firm believer that health food should taste like health food. A brick of mashed up greens was never going to taste like a mars bar, so why bother? Bellamy was still frowning at her. “It’s not a big deal. I just don’t usually have time. That’s just what being an intern is like, you’re the bottom of the totem pole, you work while the attendings take lunch breaks.” She shrugged.

“Sounds like fun.” Clarke studied his face, and decided there was definitely judgment in that comment.

“It’s not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to train you for brain surgeries that last eighteen hours when you don’t get to take a break because your patient will bleed out on the table.” She snapped, not sure why she suddenly felt so defensive. He held his hands up in mock surrender. She groaned. “Sorry. I’m a little edgy.”

“It’s fine.” He walked away, returning to the table with another slice of garlic bread. He held it out to her and she took it gratefully.

“You’re a great cook.” She gestured at him with the garlic bread. He gave her a smile, a genuine one, and she found herself returning it automatically.

“Well, I had to cook for Octavia. Our mom…” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s okay.” Clarke said gently. “Octavia already told me.” Her friend had explained, in great detail and explicit language, that their mother had lost her job when Octavia was two, and had turned to the streets to pay the bills. From the stories Clarke had heard, Bellamy had come home to find his mother with a client more than once. Her proximity to drugs had eventually fostered a habit of her own, and she’d died of an overdose when Octavia was eleven. Clarke wasn’t sure how old Bellamy was, but he couldn’t have been older than eighteen when it happened. She doubted it was something he wanted to talk about with a stranger.

She fished around for a change of subject, and her eyes fell on a stack of books on her counter.

“How did your meeting go?” She asked, carrying her now empty bowl to the dishwasher. She couldn’t see Bellamy’s face, but she could hear the relief in his voice when he replied.

“Good. We got a lot done.” He didn’t elaborate.

“Okay. Any chance you’re going to tell me what you’re working on?”

“It’s boring.” He shrugged dismissively, a move Clarke recognized as one she used when anyone asked about her painting. It was a tell, and she knew it well.

“Try me.” She grabbed the empty bottles of beer and dropped them in the recycling bin under her sink. Swiping two new ones from the fridge, she settled across from Bellamy at the table, waiting expectantly. He took the beer she handed him, picking at the label with his thumb.

“There’s a guy down here who’s a descendant of a historical figure I’m working on a kind of post-bio piece on. I was hoping to get in touch with him but no luck so far.” Clarke frowned.

“I though you said you got a lot done?”

“We did. I have some other sources in the area, none who have access to the kind of documents he does, but I got some good notes.” He said it with a smile, but Clarke could see through it. He was a perfectionist, and they were easily recognized by their own kind. She’d had days like that. She once had hiked for eight hours in the middle of the night to get the right vantage point and lighting for a painting. And that was just a hobby.

“Who are you writing about?” She wondered, still a little surprised that he was a history buff. It seemed like he was just full of surprises.

“His name is Archer Collins. He drew some designs in the 1800’s that ended up being included in the first space shuttle. He was way ahead of his time, but because of that none of his work really got any attention when he was alive. Now his designs are being used but since he’s dead the engineers using them are reluctant to hand over the credit.” His eyes lit up a little as he spoke, and Clarke felt a spark of envy. This was what it looked like to truly love what you do. Then his words hit her. Her mouth dropped open.

“Archer Collins? The guy you’re trying to get a hold of is Finn Collins?” He stared at her in surprise.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“I-yeah. I know him.” Clarke answered, deciding that was all he needed to know. She did know Finn, in fact she had dated Finn. Well, actually, they had been engaged. But the engagement had lasted a whole three days before she found out he had been cheating on her with her mechanic, and Clarke had unceremoniously thrown him and all of his things out onto the street. For some reason, after the dust had settled they had maintained a cordial relationship, if only because they shared friends and it seemed that not even a week could pass without them running into each other. At first Clarke had ignored him, but she could only keep it up for so long before deciding that cold and polite worked a lot better than sprinting in the opposite direction every time she saw him.

“You know him, like you’re in contact?” Bellamy was gaping at her like he’d just won the lottery. She sighed.

“Yeah. We… run into each other now and then. I can give him a call if you want.” She didn’t want to call Finn, really didn’t want to call Finn, but Bellamy had come all the way out here for this story and she could tell it meant a lot to him. She wasn’t sure why she cared, but she did. “He owes me a favour.” He owed her a lot more than a favor, but Clarke didn’t want anything from him. This, she was doing for Bellamy. Bellamy who was currently beaming at her as if she’d promised him her first born child.

“Yes. Please. I mean, if you don’t mind.” Suppressing the urge to groan, Clarke smiled tightly.

“No, not at all.” She grabbed her phone off the counter, muscle memory kicking as she traced the familiar number across the keypad. It was late, but Finn didn’t work Mondays and she knew he’d be up. Some things change, others don’t. His schedule was as steadfast as time itself. Listening to the phone ring, Clarke tapped her fingers irritably on the table.

“Hello?” Finn finally picked up, his voice a little uncertain. He had caller ID, he knew it was her. Clarke hadn’t called him since the breakup almost a year ago.

“Um, hey. It’s Clarke.” Stupid, she thought. He already knew that.

“Hi.” The pause was awkward, and Clarke was suddenly aware that she’d spent most of the last hour sitting in silence with Bellamy, and it had been so comfortable she hadn’t thought twice about it. The contrast was glaring.

“I was actually wondering if I could ask a favor.” The words felt like acid, burning her tongue as they went. A very indignant part of her wanted to hang up the phone, to hold onto her pride. The logical part dismissed that, but her pulse spiked a little as though in protest.

“Of course.” He answered immediately, and Clarke bit her lip. Clearly he was still feeling the guilt of what he’d done. Once, that would have made her happy. Now all she felt was empty.

“I have this friend, he’s writing a book about one of your ancestors. I was wondering if you’d be willing to meet with him, just to talk.”

“Bellamy Blake? You know that guy?” Finn sounded a little incredulous.

“He’s Octavia’s brother.” There was another pause, and Clarke could practically see Finn slapping a hand to his forehead as he put it together.

“I should’ve known. Yeah, I’ve gotten a few of his e-mails but I just haven’t had time to deal with it. Sure. I’ll talk to him. I’m free every day except Thursday after three and-”

“All day Sunday.  Yeah, I know.” The familiarity still hurt a little, but not in the way it used to. Now it was more of a dull ache, like a bruise that wasn’t quite healed.

“Do you want to ask him and call me back?” Finn asked. Clarke glanced at Bellamy sitting across from her.

“Uh, no. Just hold on a second.” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and looked at Bellamy. “He says he’s free every day except Thursday after three and all day on Sunday.” It didn’t escape Clarke’s notice that Bellamy was supposed to be leaving tomorrow, but she didn’t bring it up. A few more days wouldn’t kill her, and now that she’d gone to the effort and asked Finn there was no sense in Bellamy leaving before they got a chance to talk.

“Wednesday would be great.” Bellamy told her, still looking pleasantly surprised. Clarke nodded and lifted her hand from the phone.

“How’s Wednesday?”

“That’s fine. Around eight?” Clarke mouthed _eight_ to Bellamy and he gave her a thumbs up.

“Sure. He’ll meet you at the Alibi Room.” Realizing she was tapping her fingers against the table in discomfort, Clarke slid her hand under the table, sitting on it.

“Okay. Clarke?” Fighting the urge to simply hang up and down an entire bottle of wine, Clarke exhaled slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Is he with you now? Like at your place?”

“Goodnight, Finn” Clarke said sharply, hanging up and dropping the phone on the table. Bellamy looked at her inquisitively, but she waved it off. “Okay, you’re meeting him at the Alibi Room at eight. It’s a nice pub, and it’s close. You can walk from here.” He cocked his head, studying her.

“Do you have a problem with this Collins kid?” He asked, ignoring what she’d said. Clarke dropped her head into hands, wanting nothing more than to fall into bed.

“No.” She muttered into her fingers. She didn’t have to look up to know he didn’t believe her. She groaned, looking back up at him. “I’m just tired, and we don’t get along that well. I’m going to bed, Bellamy. Thanks for dinner.” Suddenly exhausted, Clarke stood, finishing the rest of her beer and recycling the bottle. She headed for her bedroom without looking back, waving her hand above her head in a silent goodnight.

When her head hit the pillow, Finn’s face appeared behind closed eyes, but the last thing she saw before it all faded away was Bellamy’s smile.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Despite their moment of bonding, Clarke was beginning to think Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough. Having Bellamy around was making her edgy, and her edginess was making him even more unpleasant than she suspected he usually was. Because he was her guest, she knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, but his gruffness was starting to chafe on her nerves. She looked at him now, watching as he shoved a particularly large spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth. She bit back a smile. He was a lot easier to be around when his mouth was full.

“Octavia will be here in a couple minutes.” She told him, and he nodded while continuing to chew. Octavia hadn’t seen much of Bellamy in the past few days, and Clarke had actually had to tell her to stop sending snapchats of her and Lincoln in bed, because every time she went to open the videos Bellamy was in the room. It took about three awkwardly closed videos of moaning before Clarke called Octavia and threatened to block her. Bellamy was probably beginning to think she liked to watch porn on her phone. It was Tuesday now, and Lincoln had finally gone home, so the siblings were going to spend some time together. Clarke was glad for it, even if only because it would get Bellamy out of her hair for a couple of hours. There was a knock on the door and Clarke turned to answer it, shaking her head as Bellamy continued to shove huge mounds of cereal into his mouth.

“Hey.” She pulled the door open and practically dragged Octavia into the apartment.

“Hi to you too.” Octavia muttered, rubbing her arm where Clarke’s hand had been. “What’s with you?”

Clarke sighed.

“Your brother is just… getting on my nerves.” She admitted. Her mother, the perfect hostess, would have been horrified that she had spoken ill of her guest, but Clarke and Octavia were close enough that tact was discarded almost entirely. Octavia grinned.

“Oh, I know the feeling. Imagine living with him for twenty years.” She began to shrug off her coat, but Clarke shook her head.

“No thanks. And don’t take your coat off. Go find Bellamy and get him out of my apartment, I need a couple hours to draw. He’s been stressing me out since Saturday night and I need some me time.” Clarke shoved Octavia down the hall. Her friend looked back at her suspiciously.

“Can’t you draw with him here?”

Clarke shook her head.

“No. And besides, he doesn’t know I draw, so.”

Octavia made a noise of understanding.

“Ah. You know, I thought it was weird when he asked me for the name of the ‘local artist’ who did the painting in my bedroom.” Clarke paused at Octavia’s words, glancing into the kitchen to see if Bellamy had heard.

“Did you tell him it was me?” She asked. The brunette shook her head.

“No. I figured if you wanted him to know, he would. Why don’t you want him to know?”

Clarke shrugged.

“I don’t know it’s just… private.” Octavia scoffed.

“You’re weirdly modest. If I had your talent-”

“If you looked like that and had any kind of artistic talent I don’t think we could be friends.” Clarke said, resuming her effort to push Octavia towards her brother. Octavia rolled her eyes.

“You’re crazy. Bell!” She shouted, as they rounded the corner into the kitchen. She threw her arms around her brother, who patted her halfheartedly on the back.

“What, did you guys spend twenty minutes conspiring in the doorway or something?” He asked suspiciously, eyes darting between the two girls. Clarke shrugged.

“I was just telling Octavia how much you’ve been getting on my nerves.” She told him. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. It was the first real crack she’d taken at him since he arrived, everything up until now had been almost painfully polite. But having Octavia here made him seem like family, somehow. She smiled. Bellamy frowned, picking up his bowl and loading it into the dishwasher.

“I’ll go grab my jacket.” He muttered, casting another wary glance over his shoulder as he retreated. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“Well at least you haven’t killed each other yet. Or slept together.” Octavia mused. Clarke stared at her in horror. Octavia sighed. “It wouldn’t be the first time, trust me.” Clarke was afraid to ask.

“Oh.” She reached out, grabbing Octavia’s hand. “And maybe don’t mention the whole me and Finn thing. I thought it might make him feel weird tomorrow.” Her friend smiled sadly.

“Sure.”

Clarke hated that Octavia still looked like that every time Finn’s name came up. After she’d found out about Finn and Raven it had been almost a week before Octavia could get her out of bed. It wasn’t necessarily the heartbreak, although that had been bad enough, but the embarrassment of having been played like that had made facing the world seem insurmountable. But Octavia had gotten her there, slowly weaning her out of her apartment, and eventually rage had replaced rejection. Clarke had gotten over it, mostly, but her friend would never forgive Finn.

Bellamy appeared again, holding his jacket and an umbrella.

“Does it ever not rain here?” He wondered.

“Every few years there’s a dry day in July.” Clarke quipped. He glared. She couldn’t help it. Now that the first bit of sarcasm had slipped out it seemed there was no going back. Not that she minded. Clarke hated polite for polite’s sake. It was something her mother had always practiced, but Clarke favoured honesty over tact. It was one of the reasons her and Octavia got along so well.

“Come on grumpy.” Octavia trilled, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Let’s leave Clarke to pa-” she stopped herself just in time. “Partake in some quiet time.” Clarke rolled her eyes. _Nice save_ , she mouthed. Octavia just shrugged.

 

It didn’t take long after they’d left for Clarke to lose herself in her sketchbook. It had been a busy week at the hospital, and coming home after twelve hour work days to a moody and unpredictable Bellamy had taken it’s toll on her. An hour went by before she realized what she was drawing. She suddenly found herself staring at a familiar brick storefront in Yaletown. It had been a First Nations art gallery for years, but recently the proprietor had passed away, and within a few weeks it had been converted into a gallery full of pieces from local artists. Clarke often ducked in when she was in the area, admiring the art and chatting with the staff. The curator was an opinionated woman in her twenties, Anya Trikru, and although her and Clarke had gotten into more than one heated discussion the two of them got along pretty well. Clarke had never mentioned her own work, but she’d been talked into buying a camping scene, one of a site along the Coquihalla River where she used to go with her father. It was beautiful, and nostalgic, and it always made her feel something.

After a little while the rain stopped and she decided to go out for a walk, packing some pencils and her sketchbook, and eventually found herself on a bench in Stanley Park. She passed a few hours there, until the light started to fade and the crowds started to thin, and then she slowly made her way back home. It wasn’t until she pushed through her door and heard the sounds of Bellamy and Octavia’s laughter that she realized exactly how badly she’d needed a day off. She’d spent all week thinking Bellamy was the problem, that having a guest was stressing her out, that his attitude was wearing her down, but the truth was that she had been miserable long before he arrived.

She hated her job. As she hung her coat by the door and made her way toward the living room it suddenly struck her that the dread she was feeling had nothing to do with the floppy haired writer on her couch. But the thought of going back to the hospital the next day, arguing with patients, spending hours in surgery, it was overwhelming. And now that she could finally admit to herself how little it meant to her, the sixty hour work week in front of her was no longer an option.

“I think I’m quitting my job.” She announced, flopping onto the couch beside Octavia. Both siblings stared at her, wide-eyed, as the conversation ground to a halt.

“You’re-wait what?” Octavia demanded, instantly focused. Bellamy just looked on in confusion.

“I’m going to leave the program.” Clarke said. There was something both liberating and terrifying in saying it out loud. Octavia set her glass of wine down so quickly it almost sloshed over the side.

“Since when?” Her friend wondered.

“Since now.”

There was silence for a moment or two, Clarke reveling in the freedom while Octavia gaped like a fish. Bellamy stayed quiet, but his eyes were thoughtful.

“Well.” Octavia said. “I’ll drink to that.”

Clarke grinned, surprised at her relief. It wasn’t like she needed Octavia’s permission, but having someone, anyone to back up her decision was all she’d really needed.

“I guess I need a drink then.” She said, standing. She eyed Bellamy’s almost empty beer. “You?” He cleared his throat.

“I-sure.” He finished the remaining dregs and handed Clarke the empty bottle. She carried it into the kitchen, mind still reeling a little. This was a big decision, maybe bigger than any she’d made so far. She had gone into medicine because it had meant security, independence. The last thing she wanted was to end up broke and back on her mother’s doorstep. But the longer she spent in the surgical internship the more miserable she became, and over the past few months it had become clear her heart wasn’t in it anymore. _You can still change your mind_. The voice in her head sounded unsurprisingly like her mother. But she was sure, for once. She grabbed two beers from the fridge and headed back into the living room.

“So,” She said, handing one of the bottles to Bellamy. “What did you two get up to today?” He took it, staring back at her with an intensity that made her a little uncomfortable.

“Did some shopping on Granville when the rain let up, hit a few used bookstores. Grandpa over there spent like two hours in the one on West Pender.” Octavia muttered. Bellamy smirked.

“I didn’t complain when you spent an hour in that tattoo parlor talking to the guy with the things in his ears.”

“Oh my god they’re called _gauges_.” Octavia looked horrified. “Just how old are you exactly?” He frowned.

“Are you seriously getting another tattoo?” Clarke asked. Octavia already had more than Clarke could count on her hands, and those were just the ones she’d seen. Octavia shrugged.

“I don’t know. Nyko and I were talking designs but we couldn’t come up with anything I liked. I was actually going to ask you-” Clarke coughed, cutting her off. Octavia paused, then looked at Bellamy. He looked a little wary, but not any more so than usual.

“Did you guys already eat?” Clarke asked. Octavia shook her head. “Then I’m taking you out for dinner. We’re celebrating.” She made a noise of yearning. “I’ve been craving a burger from Murphy’s for like a week.” Octavia hummed in agreement.

 

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the pub, a waitress appearing as they settled in with a pitcher of beer and a few glasses.

“Thanks, Marilyn.” Clarke smiled at her. The other girl just nodded, placing the pitcher on the table and disappearing without a word.

“Friendly staff.” Bellamy commented. Clarke sighed.

“She takes a while to warm up to people.”

“Trust me,” Octavia murmured, pouring the beer. “If you had to work for Murphy you would look like that too.” He cocked his head.

“Murphy?”

“The owner.” Clarke said, wondering if maybe Bellamy wasn’t as smart as she’d originally thought.

“Yeah, I got that. I just meant… Are you two on a first name basis with the staff at all the bars in the area, or is it just this one?” He smiled cheekily. Clarke was surprised at how approachable it made him look.

“Don’t look at me.” Octavia said, laughing. “I’m reformed now.” Clarke scoffed.

“Oh don’t even try that. I still don’t remember what happened last weekend.”

“I rest my case.” Octavia grinned. Clarke rolled her eyes. “Oh.” The brunette pulled her phone from a pocket in her jacket. “Actually, I think there are pictures.”

Clarke shook her head.

“I think I’m better off not knowing.” She muttered.

Bellamy looked intrigued, but stayed quiet.

As the night wore on they steadily made their way through two more pitchers of beer and a couple rounds of shots. By the time Murphy came around to kick everyone out they could barely stand. Still, Bellamy had enough brain power left to close out their tab.

“It’s supposed to be my treat.” Clarke argued. Her words were a little slurred, but he seemed to get the message all the same. He shook his head, shoving a wad of cash at Marilyn.

“No offense, but you’re basically unemployed.” He said. Clarke got the distinct sense it had been meant to come out kind, but for some reason the image of someone that drunk feeling sorry for her made her instantly defensive.

“I’m not unemployed.” She muttered. Both Blakes glanced accusingly at her. “Okay technically.” She wobbled a little as they made their way out onto the cobblestones and Bellamy’s hand shot out automatically, steadying her. She whacked it away. Octavia giggled. They stumbled along like that, walking in the general direction of her loft until Clarke heard her name from behind them.

“Clarke?” She turned, a little too quickly, and almost toppled over. Once again, Bellamy was there to catch her. This time she let him. As she straightened up the approaching figure came into focus, and she smiled.

“Miller, hey.” She said. The bearded boy grinned back at her.

“What a scene.” Miller muttered, his big dark eyes scanning the intoxicated group. Octavia looked indignant.

“We’re celebrating.” She told him. He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh yeah? What’s the occasion?”

“I quit my job.” Clarke said. Then frowned. “I mean I’m going to.”  Miller pursed his lips like he was suppressing a smile.

“Really.”

Clarke studied his reaction, frowning.

“You don’t look surprised.” She noted. He shrugged.

“I’m not. You hate your job.”

Clarke squinted at him. He was a part of the group of friends she met at the hospital. A pharmaceutical chemist named Jasper had invited her out for drinks after a particularly long shift, and the people he had introduced her to, including Miller, were a mixture of sweet and delinquent. They had all become close in the past year or so, but Clarke had always been guarded. Other than Octavia she doubted there was anyone who truly knew her, baggage and all.

“How did you know that?” She wondered. Clarke wasn’t much of a complainer. She hadn’t mentioned how much her job had been bringing her down to anyone other than Octavia. Miller grinned.

“Maybe I’m psychic.” He said. Clarke scoffed. For the first time, Miller addressed Bellamy. “So, who are you to take my girls out and get them sauced like this?” Bellamy frowned.

“I’m Bellamy. Octavia’s brother. How do you all know each other?” He wasn’t sober, not by a long shot, but it seemed like the crisp night air was beginning to pull him back to reality.

“I dunno.” Miller shrugged again. “A mutual friend introduced us.” Bellamy looked suspicious. Miller wasn’t being cryptic, their relationship was hard to explain. Octavia had hooked up with him once, after a lot of tequila and a bad breakup. Nothing ever came of it, and Clarke would never have known about it if Octavia hadn’t told her. About a month after the Finn disaster Clarke had followed suit, sleeping with Miller on and off for a couple weeks until they decided to stay friends while they still could. No one knew, other than the three of them, and if anything they were closer than before.

“We gotta go.” Octavia shouted suddenly, spinning unsteadily on her heel and sprinting in the opposite direction. Bellamy only gaped in surprise for a second before chasing after his sister. Clarke blinked, bewildered, but the sound of retching in the distance quickly explained her friend’s abrupt departure.

“I guess I’m going.” She said. He fell into step beside her as she resumed their route home.

“You happy, doc?” He asked, face not moving from it’s trademark unreadable ambivalence. Clarke shrugged.

“Sure.”

All four of them made it back to the loft in one piece, Miller making sure they were all safely inside before taking off. Octavia staggered into bed, Clarke’s bed, and Bellamy disappeared followed soon after by the sound of running water. Clarke slid into bed next to Octavia, knowing from bitter experience that her friend would be no worse for the wear the next morning while she suffered her own hangover in solitude. As she lay in bed, listening to the sound of the shower, Clarke suddenly remembered the reason they’d gone out to celebrate in the first place.

“O.” Clarke rolled over, facing Octavia and giving her friend a shove.

“What?” Octavia groaned.

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think I’m crazy for quitting my job?”

Octavia sighed, opening one eye reluctantly.

“No. I think you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re going to be great. And I’m going to sleep now.” She hit Clarke, hard, and then rolled over and pulled the comforter over her head. Clarke tried to quell the anxious flutters that were starting in her stomach. What was she going to tell her boss? _Oh god_. What was she going to tell her mother?

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 _You really should know better than this_. Clarke thought, sipping gingerly at the glass of coconut water in front of her. _You’re not nineteen anymore._ She sighed, forcing herself to finish the drink and then grimacing at the sloshing in her belly as she stood up to put the glass away.

“Good morning.” Octavia bounced into the kitchen, looking tired but infinitely better than Clarke imagined she did. She just groaned.

“Would you keep it down? Not all of us have a superhuman tolerance for alcohol.”

Octavia grinned.

“I feel like waffles. You feel like waffles?” She asked. Clarke gagged.

“This better not be a family thing. I swear to god if Bellamy wakes up looking like you I’m going to-”

“You’re going to what?” Bellamy asked, shuffling into the kitchen behind his sister. He looked exactly like Clarke felt, tired, sick and a little self-loathing. It gave her a strange sense of vindication.

“Well, we’ll never have to find out. You look like shit.” She didn’t even try to disguise the cheer in her voice. He glared at her.

“I _feel_ like shit.” He muttered, pushing away the glass of water Octavia shoved at him. “Where’s the coffee?”

“I was getting to that.” Clarke turned to get a pot brewing while Octavia rifled around behind her, digging out a couple mixing bowls and a waffle iron. “Octavia, I really don’t-”

“You’re getting waffles. Both of you. Trust me, if you don’t eat you’re only going to feel worse.”

“Is that even possible?” Bellamy wondered aloud. “I haven’t been this hungover since that time with the-” He broke off as he noticed Octavia listening intently. “Nothing. Never mind.” She rolled her eyes.

“You’re no fun. I have lots of stories. Actually, just last week Clarke and I were at Phoenix, and we-”

Clarke clamped a hand over Octavia’s mouth, knowing exactly which story she was going to tell.

“No.” She told her friend, looking her firmly in the eye. “You will not tell that story. Ever. To anyone.” It was Bellamy’s turn to look alert and intrigued. Clarke removed her hand from Octavia’s face and the brunette sighed dejectedly.

“Okay fine. God, it’s like living with a bunch of senior citizens.”

“We don’t live together.” Bellamy reminded Octavia, shooting Clarke a wary glance. “Besides, I doubt senior citizens ever wake up with hangovers like this.”

“Hey, you don’t know what goes on in those nursing homes. It’s like an STD jungle.” Clarke told him. She was shocked when Bellamy cracked a smile, a wide one. She turned back to the coffee pot, hiding her own. “Okay, coffee.” She poured herself a huge mug, not bothering to add cream or sugar before sipping carefully at the scalding liquid. It burned her tongue, but she didn’t care. Both Blakes rushed over to follow suit, and soon they were all quiet, slurping their coffee and watching the timer on the waffle iron count down.

“So,” Octavia broke the silence. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Clarke shrugged.

“I’m meeting that Collins kid tonight.” Bellamy reminded them. Clarke had to will her shoulders not to tense at the mention of Finn’s name. Octavia glanced over at her, gauging her friend’s reaction.

“Oh, yeah.” Clarke said. It was Bellamy’s turn to look at her, and something in his face made Clarke wonder if she wasn’t disguising her discomfort as well as she’d thought.

“Oh.” Octavia frowned. “Finn, right. Where are you guys meeting?”

“The Alibi Room?” His eyes flickered towards Clarke as though needing confirmation. She nodded.

“I guess I have to go to the hospital.” She mused. “To quit.” She added, when Bellamy looked puzzled. His confusion turned to interest.

“Still want to do that?” There was no judgment in his voice, just curiosity. Clarke nodded.

“I already have the post-celebration hangover. Might as well.” She said, sighing. The waffle iron let out a little _ping_ and Octavia busied herself pouring the batter.

“You know,” The brunette said. “You’re going to have to tell your mom about this.” Her voice was gentle, but wary. As though she thought Clarke wouldn’t have realized. Clarke feigned horror.

“My mother?” Octavia didn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm in her voice. “My mother the chief of staff at the hospital? I’ll have to tell her?” Clarke laughed as her friend threw a spatula across the room. Laughed even harder when her quick reflexes and Bellamy’s much slower ones resulted in the spatula smacking him squarely across the face. The shell-shocked look on his face coupled with the smear of batter left on his cheek were too much for the girls, who dissolved into hysteria.

“I just thought you might not have thought this all the way through.” Octavia said, when the laughter had died down. “No need to be a bitch.” She added, tongue in cheek. Clarke smiled.

“That wouldn’t really be my style.” She said. Octavia rolled her eyes.

The three of them finished breakfast in relative silence, and despite her terrible hangover and the budding anxiety of having to tell her mother that she was throwing away years of medical education, Clarke felt strangely at ease. Octavia had felt like family since the very first lunch in that hospital room, and Bellamy, though Clarke was still fairly sure he was an asshole, was starting to feel like he’d always been a part of this.

The rest of the day was not quite as peaceful. Dr. Mbege, Clarke’s boss, didn’t take the news well at first.

“But, why? You’re the top in our program.” The disappointment on his face cut into Clarke like a knife. He had been an amazing mentor, and was fast on the way to becoming a friend. But it didn’t sway her.

“My heart just… isn’t in it. I used to come to work and love seeing patients, loved solving the puzzles and reading charts and the feeling of that last stitch at the end of an operation… just knowing you’ve changed somebody’s life.” She smiled as she remembered what it all used to mean.

“And you don’t feel that anymore.” Mbege finished, his frown softening. Clarke nodded. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed, you could have had an amazing career in medicine. But having watched you this past year, well, I’ve got a feeling you’ll be amazing at whatever you do.” He smiled, and Clarke suddenly found herself blinking away tears. She hadn’t realized how much his opinion mattered to her until that moment, and his encouragement meant more to her than she’d anticipated.

“Thank you, Dr. Mbege.” She managed. He just touched her lightly on the arm, a silent goodbye.

“I think you can probably call me John now.”

He turned to go, but his smile fell abruptly off his face.

“What?” Clarke asked, apprehensive. John tried to push his features back into a smile, but it was forced and tense, and it only served to make her more nervous.

“Nothing. I just… I don’t envy the conversation you’re about to have with the Chief.” He said, nodding at something behind her. She didn’t have to look to know it was her mother. “Good luck.” He murmured, disappearing into the throng of nurses and patients down the hallway. Clarke turned towards the sound of heels clicking on tile, feeling a little like she was facing the executioner.

“Clarke!” Her mother smiled, a little warmth shining through the formality. Clarke smiled.

“Hey, Mom.” They didn’t hug, never did in the hospital. Abby had decided that once Clarke became a member of her staff it wouldn’t be appropriate. It occurred to Clarke that she actually wasn’t a member of the staff anymore, but Abby didn’t know that.

“I thought you were on the late shift today.” Her mother said, frowning as though wondering if her perfect memory could have failed her. Clarke shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

“I am. Was. Actually, do you have a minute to talk?” She asked, forcing herself to meet Abby’s eyes. Her mother nodded, but there was more suspicion than curiosity in her expression. They ducked into an on-call room, and Clarke, anticipating an elevated volume, closed the door behind them. At that, Abby raised her eyebrows.

“What’s going on, Clarke?” Her tone was wary. As the chief of staff at the biggest hospital in the province, Abigail Griffin had learned to be very perceptive.

“I-” _Just rip off the bandaid,_ she thought. “I’m leaving the surgical program. I don’t want to be a surgeon.” The words tumbled out recklessly, as though if she really thought about what she was saying she would never be able to do it. Abby stared at her, lost.

“I don’t understand. You’re almost finished your internship, and I know Dr.Mbege has all but saved his cardio residency for you. Why would you leave?” Her brow was furrowed as though in confusion, but there was also enough frustration in Abby’s voice to tell Clarke that Abby understood perfectly.

“I know, and John, I mean Mbege, he’s been great. But I just don’t want to do it anymore, I don’t love it anymore.” Clarke hated that her voice had taken on that petulant tone that seemed to emerge whenever her mother was around. She was a grown woman, and she was more than capable of making this decision for herself. She stood up a little straighter. “I’m going to try and sell my art.” She said. It had sounded like a solid proposal in her head, had been good enough for her. But the way her mother’s eyes were flashing told Clarke it hadn’t sounded as good out loud.

“ _Clarke.”_  Her mother said. It was as though Clarke’s hangover had been laying in wait, subsiding long enough for her to put herself in a terrible position. She felt a sudden wave of nausea, rushing over to the sink and throwing up her breakfast of waffles and black coffee while her mother tapped her foot behind her. When she was finished, she rinsed out the sink, and then her mouth. She turned slowly back around, taking in Abby’s bemused face with a sigh.

“Are you sick?” Her mother asked, concern flitting briefly over her features. Clarke decided she might as well be honest.

“Hungover.” She said. Abby seemed to be fighting the urge to roll her eyes. To Clarke’s great surprise, she succeeded.

“So you come into the hospital hungover, drag me into an on-call room and tell me that you’re throwing away your entire future to fulfill some childhood fantasy, and you expect me to take you seriously?” Abby asks. Clarke thought she had been prepared for the worst way this conversation could have gone. Clearly, she was wrong.

“I know it’s a lot to swallow. And it probably seems out of the blue, but it’s not. I’ve been miserable in this internship for months, I just didn’t know why until yesterday.” The explanation wasn’t much, but it was all Clarke really owed her mother. Still, she stayed, waiting.

“You’re supposed to be miserable during your internship.” Abby proclaimed, her voice growing louder. “It’s meant to weed out the people who aren’t cut out for this. But you’re not a quitter, Clarke. Don’t be immature. No one loves their job all the time, that’s why it’s called working. You can always continue to paint as a hobby, but that’s what it is. A hobby.” Her words rang of finality, but it didn’t matter for once. Clarke scoffed.

“How many hours did you work this week?” She asked her mother.

“I’m the Chief of Staff, Clarke. Your workload won’t come close to mine.” Abby deflected.

“Alright, how about Dr. Mbege then? I know you know.” Clarke insisted. Abby’s eyes flashed, but she answered.

“Somewhere around seventy, I believe.” She said, lips pursed. Clarke nodded.

“Seventy. And that’s average. I know, because I’ve been in this hospital with him for most of those hours. This week, and last week, and the week before that. I don’t have time for painting, or drawing. I don’t even have time to sleep. I can’t spend seventy hours a week for the rest of my life doing something I don’t love.” Clarke said. The sadness crept into her voice. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to do this for her mother, for her father. But it wasn’t enough. She scrubbed tiredly at her face.

“Look,” She murmured, suddenly much too tired to fight with her mother. “This obviously isn’t a good time. I shouldn’t have ambushed you like this at work. I just didn’t want you to hear this from John, or someone else.”

Abby’s mouth twisted into a grim line.

“You’ve already spoken to him?” She asked. Clarke nodded again. “Well. Then I guess there isn’t anything else to say.” Abby gave Clarke one last look of bitter disappointment, then pulled open the door, leaving Clarke standing alone and exhausted. Deciding it was all a bit much, she tumbled sideways onto the closest bed, not bothering to shut off the light. It didn’t take long for sleep to come, and when it did the last thought Clarke had was of how much she loved to draw freckles.

 

A couple hours later, she woke up feeling terrible enough to grab a couple of banana bags from a sympathetic looking Jasper in Pharmacy. He handed over the IV bags with a sad smile.

“So,” She said, stuffing the liquids into her bag before anyone saw. “I guess you heard the news.” He nodded, the mad scientist goggles he wasn’t supposed to wear at work bobbing around his neck.

“You’re leaving us?” He sounded so forlorn she almost laughed.

“I’m just quitting my job, Jas. I’m not dying. We’ll still see each other all the time.”

He frowned.

“That’s what they all say.”

“All who?” She asked.

“Well, that’s what Atom said.”

She sighed.

“Atom moved to Boston. You live like five minutes from me.”

He considered that for a moment, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Fine. But if you start bailing on Trivia night I’m going to tell everyone that the pair of underwear hanging above the bar at Murphy’s are yours.”

Clarke gaped at him.

“Jasper, how-”

“I have my sources.” He said with a grin. “Now go home. You look horrible, and I’m going to have to tell Dr. Tsing that I accidentally poked holes in those banana bags.”

Clarke smiled gratefully, retreating with a wave. She would deal with telling the rest of her friends later. For now, all she wanted to do was get out of the hospital. The fluorescent lights were only aggravating her hangover.

 

She was barely through the front door when she heard it. Moaning. A lot of it. She slowly made her way toward it, pausing outside the bathroom door. The voice was definitely male, and it occurred to her that Bellamy moaning alone in the bathroom probably meant he did not want company. She turned to go, trying to be quiet, but her phone suddenly burst to life, piping Misty Mountain Hop at full volume through the hallway.

“Shit.” She muttered, fumbling to turn it off. When she finally managed to silence it, she noticed the moaning had stopped.

“Clarke?” Bellamy’s voice floated out from under the closed bathroom door. She bit her lip.

“Uh, yeah. Hi. I was just going to leave you alone, I’ll go to Octavia’s so you can-”

“No!” He sounded almost panicked, and Clarke stopped inching her war toward the front door. “Don’t leave.”

She stared at the wall, confused and a little nervous.

“Are you still drunk?” She asked. There was silence. “Are you shaking your head?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Yeah you’re still drunk, or-”

“I’m not drunk, I was shaking my head. Look can you-can you just come in here?”

She hesitated, wondered what exactly he wanted from her. She couldn’t say she would be completely adverse to jumping his bones then and there, but it also wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t actually like him that much. Besides, Octavia had told her not to.

“I don’t really want to.” She finally said.

“What? Clarke, come on-”

“I just-it’s not a good idea. Why don’t I let you finish up in there and we can talk later?” She didn’t know what to do, felt ridiculous and awkward having this conversation through a closed door.

“What the hell are you talking about? Would you please just open the door?” Bellamy asked, his voice an irritated timbre. With a deeply anxious sigh, Clarke pushed on the handle, swinging open the door. She expected to find him standing in the shower, one hand on his dick while he leered at her.

In hindsight it didn’t sound much like Bellamy.

Instead, the shower curtain was almost completely drawn, only Bellamy’s face stuck out to greet her, his neck bent at a strange angle pressing his head against the wall. She paused.

“What’s going on?”

He grimaced.

“I kind of fell.”

“You kind of fell.” She repeated. He glared at her.

“I hit my head on your stupid bar and then I got my hair caught in the stupid curtain ring.” He explained. It was clear that he was in a terrible mood, and she felt bad for him, she really did, but Clarke couldn’t help the laughter as it burst from her chest. She clutched her stomach, doubling over as Bellamy went to fold his arms across his chest and then realized he couldn’t without bashing one of his elbows into the wall. She didn’t stop laughing until she saw the long smear of crimson across his forehead, covered mostly by a mess of damp curls.

“Oh.” She said, sobering instantly. Bellamy, who had been fixing her with an impressive glower, sighed.

“Are you finished?”

She nodded, feeling guilty. She approached the shower carefully, not wanting to get an accidental eyeful of Bellamy. He seemed to realize what she was doing, and the scowl on his face turned to amusement.

Her hand reached out automatically to brush the hair off his forehead, and she hmmed as she inspected the gash in his head. It was bad enough that she almost certain it would need stitches.

“Any chance you can wait to give me a full physical until I’m no longer attached to your shower curtain?” He asked. She blinked.

“Right. Hold on.” She inspected the grommet in the curtain that his hair was currently tangled in. Her hands were steady and strong, but delicate enough to work the stray curls loose from the ring of metal. “There.” She nodded at him, and he straightened his head. There was wonder in his smile as his head pulled easily away without tugging on the curtain. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks.”

Clarke just smirked, handing him a towel. He took it, wrapping it around his waist before pushing the curtain aside and stepping onto the mat. It wasn’t until then that she could see the amount of blood pooling on the floor of her shower. The smirk dropped from her face immediately.

“Oh, Bellamy.” She murmured. He glanced back at it, then shrugged.

“It’s fine. Honestly, the crick in my neck is worse.” Clarke didn’t buy it for a second.

“Sit down.”

He gave her a bemused glance, but did as he was told. Once again, her fingers brushed over his scalp, this time running across the cut on his head. He flinched a little, and Clarke let her hands drop. She inspected the rest of his head for injuries before coming to a diagnosis.

“You’re going to need stitches.” She told him. He looked surprised.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. Stay put while I get my suture kit.” Giving Bellamy a stern glance, Clarke began to root through the under-sink cabinet. She emerged with a small first-aid kit, fighting a smile at the look on his face.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered. Clarke snorted.

“I’m not going to argue with that. Hold still.”

She managed to clean the blood away and stitch up the deepest part of the gash, which was fortunately on his forehead. His eyes narrowed when she hummed sympathetically.

“What?” He asked. She bit her lip.

“That’s going to scar.”

The horror on his face was enough to have her suppressing another chuckle.

“You’re _joking_.”

“I’m really not. But… I won’t tell if you don’t. Maybe you got that scar last night and don’t remember how.”

He considered her with surprise.

“Thanks, princess. I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” His voice was low, and the look he was giving her was enough to have Clarke backing slowly out of the bathroom.

“No problem.” Her face felt hot all of a sudden, and it wasn’t from the steam. “I’ll let you get dressed.” Clarke murmured. Turning on her heel, she rushed out of the bathroom, resisting the urge to fan herself as she recalled the way he’d looked wearing nothing but a towel.

When Bellamy found her a few minutes later, she was sitting on the couch, an IV line running from her arm to the banana bag hang off the coat rack.

“Uh,” He said, eyes flicking between Clarke and the coat rack. She suddenly realized exactly how bizarre this would look to him.

“Oh. Hey. I was just rehydrating.” She wiggled her arm a little. He still looked confused. “It’s just electrolytes and stuff. I haven’t been able to shake this hangover, so…” She trailed off when he continued to stare. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“You went to the hospital then?”

Clarke smiled.

“I’m officially unemployed.” She gave a little sarcastic fist pump. His answering smile was less than convincing. “The IV thing is still weirding you out isn’t it?” Clarke asked. Bellamy scrubbed tiredly at his face.

“No, I mean yeah. I’m just still a little dazed from the fall.”

Clarke got to her feet, careful not to tug on her IV. She stood in front of him and held up a finger.

“Follow my finger.” She told him, wagging it back and forth. His eyes tracked the movement easily. “What’s your name?” He raised an eyebrow, but answered.

“Bellamy Ignatius Blake.”

“Ign…” Deciding to let that go, Clarke continued. “When is your birthday?”

“October 11th, 1986.”

She hadn’t realized he was that much older than her. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that his birthday was in less than two weeks. For whatever reason, Bellamy picked up on her surprise.

“Is that a problem, princess?” He asked, amused. Apparently a mixture of head trauma, copious alcohol consumption and embarrassing himself in her shower had made Bellamy feel a little more comfortable around her.

“Ah, no. It’s just soon. And stop calling me that.”

He grinned when she sat back down on the couch with a huff.

“And you don’t have a concussion. You’ll be fine.” He sat beside her, also taking care not to disturb the bag of minerals that was currently on it’s way to making her feel human again.

“But will my ego?”

Clarke scoffed, though she was impressed he’d finally cracked a joke. She wasn’t sure she was comfortable with exactly how much she liked this side of him.

“I think your ego will be just fine.” She said, glancing at him knowingly. His expression turned a little more serious.

“Seriously, though, thank you. For patching me up.”

“No problem.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Clarke leaning back and closing her eyes. She was already feeling better, between her earlier nap and the IV.

“Did you talk to your mom?” Bellamy’s voice pulled her out of the half-sleep Clarke had slipped into. She opened her eyes. He was watching her, an almost academic interest on his face.

“Yeah.”

“How did that go?”

Clarke just blew a puff of air out of her nose, nostrils flaring, but Bellamy got the idea.

“Sorry.” He murmured. She waved her hand airily.

“It’s not like I was surprised.” She scrunched up her face, mimicking her mother. “ _You’re supposed to be miserable, that’s why it’s called work. Don’t be a quitter, Clarke._ ” Her face dropped back into an exhausted pout. “To be fair, I did throw up in the middle of telling her.”

Bellamy snorted.

“So, what are you going to do now?” He asked. Clarke opened her mouth to tell him about her painting, but her eyes fell onto the wall clock and she jumped up in surprise.

“You’re supposed to meet Finn in twenty minutes! You have to go.”

“Oh, shit.” Bellamy leaped to his feet. “I’ll, uh, see you later.” He gave Clarke a little wave before running for the door.

“Yeah.” She stared after him, blinking as the door slammed shut behind him.

_What was she going to do now, indeed._

 


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke considered herself to be an intelligent person. So when Bellamy came home, eyes bright and mouth full of stories, little things Finn had said or shown him that put a light behind his dark features, Clarke knew he would be around for a while. He wouldn’t ask though, it wasn’t his style. She watched him, his lips vibrating as he regaled her with little known trivia about her ex-fiancee’s ancestor.

“Come here.” She gestured with her hand, and he leaned forward. Her fingers brushed his curly hair away from his forehead, eyes sweeping over the sutures she’d done a week earlier.

“What’s the verdict, Mom?” He asked. This was something of a routine for them. She would check his stitches, he would make some kind of crack about how she worried too much, or was overbearing, and light hearted banter would quickly turn into surprisingly real fights for two people who barely knew each other. Octavia thought it was hilarious. She had offered to move Bellamy in with her now that Lincoln was gone, but Clarke had suggested that it didn’t make much sense for Bellamy to move all his things if he was only staying for a few days. It was now apparent that a few days would be turning into a few weeks, or more.

“Looks alright.” She told him. “Those stitches will dissolve on their own.”

“The wonders of modern medicine.” He quipped. She rolled her eyes.

“By the way,” She began, inexplicably nervous at what she was about to say. Maybe because he was so unpredictable, and generally opposed to people helping him out. “Your half of the rent is going to be 350. And that’s outrageously cheap but I figure I’ve already paid the place off so I can cut you a break.” She tried to say it casually, but his eyes snapped up anyways.

“What?”

“I mean you could stay with Octavia, but we both know Lincoln is going to be back almost every weekend, and I don’t know how well the sock on the door policy works between siblings.” She said with a shrug. She could practically feel his stare on her back as she stood to rinse out her cereal bowl.

“I don’t get it. I’m only staying for a few days.” He said slowly. Clarke slid her bowl into the dishwasher and then turned to face him with a sigh.

“Really? Are you sure about that?” Her gaze searched his face, which crumpled in thought.

“I mean… Collins has some great material that I would love to get through. I doubt he would be willing to send those journals back with me.” He said slowly. “But…”

“So, 350 a month, for as long as you’re here.” Clarke repeated. He stared at her. It was an olive branch, all he had to do was take it. She was making this so easy on him, and he seemed to understand that.

“Okay.” He nodded. Then-“thank you.”

“Sure.”

He’d met with Finn three times in the past week, this being the latest of those. Bellamy still didn’t know the real reason Clarke had quit her job, and she suspected he was wondering what she was going to do for cash. Yesterday she’d gone down to the gallery, and talked to Anya about getting one of her pieces put up for sale. It had gone surprisingly well, and Clarke had a painting of the view from a pier off Kitsilano that would probably move quickly. All she had to do was take it in. It was a big first step.

“Collins asked if we were dating.”

Clarke turned her head to stare at Bellamy.

“What?”

“He wanted to know if we were together.” Bellamy said casually, leaning back into the couch. Clarke gaped at him.

“I-What did you say?” Not that it mattered. The answer was no. And Finn shouldn’t have been asking anyways.

“I said we were. I told him we were living together. Which, actually, is true now.” He mused.

“What? _Why_?” She croaked. If she knew Finn at all, he wouldn’t have reacted well to that. He was always possessive, and she had a feeling even though they weren’t together anymore, that hadn’t changed.

Bellamy shrugged.

“I thought it was weird that he’d ask. I wanted to see how he’d react.”

With a heavy sigh, she dropped her head into her hands.

“And?” She asked, voice muffled by her fingers.

“He wasn’t happy. Are you ever going to tell me what the story between the two of you is? You’re obviously not friends.”

When she lifted her head, Clarke was met by two very curious brown eyes. Maybe he should know.

“He’s my ex-fiancé. He cheated on me with my mechanic.” The words came a lot more easily than they used to. It was Bellamy’s turn to stare.

“ _What?”_

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.” She muttered, standing up and heading for the fridge. If they were going to have this conversation, she needed beer. A lot of beer. She could hear Bellamy’s footsteps behind her, and when she turned around they were almost touching. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” He wondered, eyes searching her face.

“Because it’s none of your business. And I thought it would make you feel weird.” 

A loaded silence settled between them, and Clarke handed him a beer. He took it, still frowning.

“You dated Collins?”

“Yes.”

“You were going to marry Collins?”

“Yes.”

“And then he cheated on you?”

“Yes.” Clarke sighed. This was possibly one of her top ten least favourite conversations ever.

“And then you _called_ him to ask for a favour?”

“Yes.” She shot him a look, warning him that this conversation was about to come to an abrupt end.

“Huh.” He took a deep swig of his beer, surveying her.

“Is that okay with you?” She muttered irritably. Talking about Finn never ceased to put her in a bad mood. It wasn’t that she missed him, more that it embarrassed her, made her feel stupid. She’d had half a mind to get the word _fool_ tattooed on her forehead after it happened. Bellamy tapped his fingers on the bottle, lost in thought.

“Does it bother you that I told him we were together?” He asked suddenly, eyes shrewd. Clarke blinked.

“Uh, not really. Except that it’s not true.” The last thing she needed was the embarrassment of Finn thinking she’d asked Bellamy to lie about that to save face.

“No.” Bellamy acknowledged. “It’s not.”

There was a weird energy in the kitchen now, Bellamy’s gaze sharper and more intense than she was used to. Under it, she felt her pulse quicken. She downed half her drink, but his gaze didn’t falter.

“Bellamy.” She finally said. He just raised his eyebrows. “Quit it.”

The corner of his lips twitched into a smirk, and she shook her head.

“I don’t know how Octavia put up with you.” She mumbled, making her way back to the living room. She was itching to pull her acrylics out, now that she had a place to take her paintings. But Bellamy still didn’t know, and for now she wanted to keep it that way. Having a stranger live with you was bizarre, and he already knew too much about her. With a start, Clarke realized just how little she knew about him in comparison.

“Well, I fed her.” Bellamy said, following her onto the couch. “Although, I feed you too.”

Clarke sighed. It was kind of hard to deny that, he had cooked almost every night. She hadn’t eaten this well since she’d lived at home.

“Speaking of feeding.” Clarke said, smiling pointedly at him. He glanced at the clock, and looked surprised at how much time had passed since he’d been home. It was just after seven.

“Oh.” He got to his feet. “So _now_ you like me again?”

She made a face.

“You give yourself too much credit. I like your cooking.”

He grinned.

“Mhmm.” But he was already making his way back to the kitchen. “You gonna complain if I make chili again? We still have some corn bread left.”

“Why would I complain?” She asked, leaning back into the couch and closing her eyes. She could get used to having a personal chef. Not that he didn’t come with some drawbacks.

“Because you like to complain.” His voice floated in from the kitchen. Drawbacks like constantly being insulted in your own home. She didn’t open her eyes, but made a sound of indignance.

“I do not _like-_ ”

“Yes you do. You’re very…particular.”

Clarke sat up, glaring at Bellamy through the gallery wall.

“What does that mean?”

He was quiet as he thought, chopping the onion in front of him and then dropping it into a pan.

“High maintenance?” He finally said, adding half a package of ground beef. Clarke scowled.

“You know, maybe that rent was too low, I could always-”

He held up his hands hastily, surrendering.

“Fine. You’re not high maintenance. You’re great.” He muttered, shaking his head. Clarke snorted.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” She said, standing up and making her way toward the fridge. Then, realizing what she’d just said, she froze.

“What?”

“I…” She turned slowly to face him. “I said you’re lucky you’re pretty.” She raised her eyebrows, challenging him.

“Interesting.” He cocked his head, studying her. “Are you hitting on me?”

Clarke sighed, setting her empty bottle down on the counter. They’d gone through a lot of beer this week.

“No.” She said patronizingly, as though she were talking to a four year old. “I’m not hitting on you.”

He didn’t look convinced. Miraculously, the doorbell rang before he could reply.

“Saved by the bell.” He murmured, as she turned to answer it. She shot him a look over her shoulder.

She was still smiling when she swung the door open, but it quickly faded to disbelief when she saw who was standing there.

“Finn?” She asked, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

He was smiling at her, much too genuinely for her comfort.

“Bellamy left his notebooks at my place. I was in the neighborhood, so…” He trailed off and held up a small stack of Moleskins.

“Um,” Clarke reached out, taking them. “Thanks.”

He hovered, and she found herself wondering if he could actually be so misguided as to think she would invite him in.

“Something smells good.” He noted, peering past her into the loft. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Bellamy’s making chili.”

The chef himself chose to make an appearance at that very moment, striding confidently toward the door. He did look like he lived there, Clarke thought with amusement. She glanced back at Finn, who didn’t look as impressed.

“Hi.” Bellamy said, glancing between them. Clarke handed him the notebooks. “Oh. Thank you.” He nodded at Finn. There was a chill there, between the men, and Clarke couldn’t help but wonder if that had been there prior to this evening.

“Um, well, I’d better go.” Finn said, slowly backing away. His eyebrow was creased with something, disappointment maybe.

“Bye.” Clarke said tiredly. Bellamy gave him a wave, and then swung the door shut. When it closed, he turned to look at Clarke.

“Are you okay?” He asked. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m fine.” But it occurred to her that she still hadn’t gotten that second beer, so she once again headed to the fridge.

“I don’t like him.” Bellamy declared, following her back into the kitchen.

“You liked him just fine a couple hours ago.” Clarke reminded him, pulling two bottles out of the fridge.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know then.” He said, taking the one she handed him. She sat at one of the bar stools, watching him as he resumed chopping vegetables.

“Know what?”

“That he’s a dick.” Bellamy said bluntly. Clarke just shrugged. She certainly wasn’t going to deny it.

“Hmm.” She mused. “Well I’m sorry that the honeymoon’s over.”

Suddenly, Bellamy put the knife down, looking up at her, his gaze serious.

“Did you want me to leave?” He asked. Clarke stared at him.

“What?”

“Did you tell me about Collins so that I wouldn’t want to work with him, and I’d go back to Toronto?” He demanded. She gaped at him.

“Wh-No! Why wouldn’t you work with him because of that? And why would I offer to let you stay here indefinitely if I wanted you to leave?” She asked, confused. He crossed his arms, evaluating her.

“I don’t know, maybe because you’re trying to be polite? Or because you feel like you owe Octavia? And what do you mean why wouldn’t I work with him? The guy’s a scumbag.” He muttered.

“Yeah but you don’t have to _date_ him Bellamy. You just need some of his documents.” She was incredulous, taken off guard by his outburst. “Where is this coming from?” She wondered.

He watched her for another few seconds, then picked the knife back up, sighing.

“I-Sorry. Forget it.”

Maybe if she knew him better, she’d push it. But she didn’t.

“Okay.”

She was quiet as he finished preparing the chili, helping him wash the dishes while they waited for it to cook. It felt like there was something he wasn’t telling her, but she let that slide. Dinner was delicious, as always, but she had no patience for the awkward silence between them as they ate.

“How’s the book going?” She asked. It might be Finn-adjacent, but she was hoping he would look past that.

“Uh.” He looked surprised. “Good, actually. I’ve sent some stuff to my editor, and they’re happy, so.”

“Happy editor sounds like a good thing.” She agreed, breaking off a piece of cornbread.

“It is.” His lips twitched. “I’m sorry if I was weird, earlier.”

She shrugged.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” She said, lips curling into a smile. He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide his own grin.

“You’re kind of a smartass.” He commented.

“You’re kind of one to talk.” She pointed out.

And just like that, the weirdness was gone.

Later, as they sat in front of the tv, legs propped up on the table, Clarke realized exactly how much of a routine they had settled into. He’d only been here for a week, but every day he came home, made dinner, she did the dishes, and then they talked and worked and fought until it was too late to do anything else. He was sitting beside her, half-watching and half-writing, like he had the past few nights. It was almost startlingly domestic.

She stood up suddenly, and he stared at her.

“You okay?”

She nodded, grabbing her coat off the back of the couch.

“I’m just going to…” She trailed off, no real plan in mind. “Get some groceries.”

“Do you want me to come?” He offered. “I mean I guess I should start chipping in…” He made a move as if to get up.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s fine. I won’t be long.”

She grabbed her keys off the hook, and was out the door before Bellamy had a chance to notice how unsettled she suddenly felt.

It had been a year since she’d lived with anyone, and that person had been Finn. Now, having Bellamy here…it shouldn’t be this easy.

Even the hard parts were easy. The bickering, and that weirdness at dinner, it didn’t feel out of place.

 _He_ didn’t feel out of place. But he was a stranger, and he would be leaving. And Clarke didn’t like how used to having him around she’d become. Her feet took her to a bar a couple blocks away, and as the first shot went down she had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

She needed to do something that had nothing to do with him. She needed to do something just for her, again.

_

When she woke up the next morning tangled in a set of sheets that were most definitely not her own, Clarke groaned.

“This wasn’t really what I meant.” She mumbled into the pillow, mostly to herself. Beside her, someone stirred. Clarke rolled over to find a blue eyed brunette blinking sleepily up at her.

“Hi.” The girl said, smiling. She was beautiful, and entirely Clarke’s type, but without the haze of liquor clouding her mind, Clarke couldn’t wait to get out of this bed.

“Hi.” Clarke said, forcing a smile. She sat up, glancing around the room for a clock. When she finally found one she leapt out of bed in shock. “Shit!” She muttered, grabbing her shirt from where it was crumpled on the floor.

“Is something wrong?” The girl, Clarke thinks her name might be Lexa, frowned in concern, tugging the sheets a little higher over her chest.

“No, I’m sorry it’s just…my roommate will be worried. I forgot to text him last night.”

Clarke doesn’t even know if that’s true, Bellamy probably wouldn’t care, but it’s ten in the morning and she had no desire to stick around for breakfast. Lexa shrugged.

“Okay, well…” She hands Clarke her pants, looking awkward. “You have my number.”

Clarke’s hands flew to her pockets, checking for her phone, when she pulled it out she found the screen to be black. It was dead. She groaned.

“Yeah.” She nodded at Lexa, hesitated, then leaned over to kiss her quickly. “I’ll call you.” She had no intention of calling her.

As she practically ran from the apartment, Clarke recognized her own street. Great. She had just slept with one of her neighbours. She made the five minute jog to her building, slightly breathless by the time she was outside her door.

She tied her hair back, and crossed her fingers that Bellamy was out. As the door swung shut, Bellamy appeared in the hallway, eyes dark.

“Where,” he growled, “have you been?” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly getting back into this story, so hopefully you guys will see more updates, especially once my finals are over. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this long, you guys are amazing. And I love reading any comments/reviews you might have for me :)

 

Clarke set her bag down slowly, startled by the intensity of emotion on Bellamy’s face.

“I stayed at a friends.” She said, eyes trailing over the deep crease in his brow.

“You-right.” He blinked. The tension didn’t leave his shoulders, but he relaxed his face a little.

“I should have texted you.” Clarke slid her jacket off. A strange mixture of guilt and indignance that she was being interrogated in her own entryway rose in her stomach. “I’m not used to having a roommate.” She shot him an apologetic smile. He didn’t return it.

“Okay. I made coffee.” He turned on his heel, leaving Clarke standing confused in the foyer. She followed him into the kitchen. When she rounded the corner she was greeted with a steaming mug of coffee.

“Oh.” She took it with surprise. “Thank you.” As she drank, she leaned against the counter, watching Bellamy fix himself a bowl of cornflakes. The stiff line of his shoulders was enough to tip her off to his mood. “You’re mad.” She observed, sipping at the coffee. He swiveled his head just enough so she could see him rolling his eyes.

“Why would I be mad?” He wondered. She shrugged.

“I was kind of wondering that myself.” She drifted over to where he was standing, staring up at his face. After a minute or so, he set his bowl down and glared at her.

“I’m not mad.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Now try saying that without flaring your nostrils at me.” Her headache was beginning to kick in, the hangover delayed but finally making itself known.

“I’m not-” He sighed. “It’s just early. And you’re being annoying.”

“ _I’m_ being annoying?” She sputtered. “You’re the one being passive aggressive. So I stayed out all night. You’re not my mother.” Her mug almost empty, Clarke turned away from him to refill. She could practically hear his indignance at being called passive aggressive.

“Jesu-I was _worried,_ Clarke.”

 _Now_ he sounded angry. And she felt a little bad.

“Look, I’m sorry. I should have called or something. Like I said, I’m not used to having a roommate.”

It was the best apology Bellamy was going to get, and he seemed to know it.

“I guess I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat about it.” His own half-assed apology came through gritted teeth. “It’s just a reflex, you know, living with O for so long. But I’m not your brother, and it’s not like I’m your boyfriend, you don’t owe me anything.”

He was right, but for some reason that didn’t make her feel better. Clarke suddenly remembered the reason she’d run out on him last night. That feeling of complacency, contentment. Like she was all too comfortable with him being here. And he was going to leave.

“No.” She said slowly. “You’re not. I’m going to shower.” She set her mug down, and headed for her bedroom.

The water washed away that feeling that lingered sometimes after waking up in someone else’s sheets. But the other feeling, the one that maybe not for the first time she’d done something for the wrong reason, that one didn’t fade so easily.

She didn’t remember too much of the night before, not after the fourth round of shots. She did remember Lexa sitting next to her, and that combination of long brown hair and big blue eyes so unlike _his_ seeming like such a perfect distraction. But then there had been tequila, a lot of it from Clarke _could_ recall, and all that came after it was static. There were flashes of the after, soft skin and pink lips and words that Clarke hoped neither of them really meant. And it had been distracting, while it lasted.

But there had been something in Lexa’s eyes that morning, something that told Clarke last night had been more than a distraction for the brunette. And that was troubling. Clarke had never been a heartbreaker, it wasn’t her style. She didn’t use people, never needed to. She was usually more careful.

 _Stupid_.

And then there was the other thing.

Clarke stepped out of the shower, the cold air rolling over her in a wave. When she reached for her towel, her fingers grazed the cold metal of the rack.

“Damnit.” She muttered. “Bellamy!”

She shivered as the sound of footsteps came up to the door.

“Clarke?” He sounded confused. She couldn’t really blame him.

“I forgot I put my towels in the wash. Can you grab them out of the dryer?”

It really was cold, and the goosebumps on her arms were so pronounced they were almost sharp. But Bellamy shuffled away, then came back, and Clarke cracked the door enough for him to pass the towel through.

“Thanks.” She let the door fall shut.

“I guess there are some perks to having a roommate after all.” Bellamy mused from the hallway. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“If I didn’t have a _roommate_ I could have just gotten the towel myself.” She grumbled in response. Wrapping the towel around her, she threw the door open. Bellamy was standing just outside, and the way his eyes traveled slowly up her body reminded her of the first time they’d met.

“I wouldn’t have stopped you.” He offered, pulling his gaze back up to her face. She smacked him squarely in the chest, leaving a wet handprint on his shirt.

“Can I get dressed now?” Clarke asked, pushing past him toward her bedroom. His chuckle followed her down the hallway. Maybe having a roommate wasn’t so bad, but having a Bellamy was starting to get her into trouble. She needed someone to talk to, someone who wasn’t a Blake.

.

“Hey.” Raven stood up when Clarke walked into the café. Clarke made her way over to the table, sitting down heavily. Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

Clarke nodded, tearing off a piece of Raven’s muffin and popping it into her mouth.

“Sort of.”

“Hmm.” Raven pushed the plate toward her, and Clarke took another bite of the muffin. “You know, I’m a mechanic, not a shrink.”

“Yeah.” Clarke admitted, “But you think more like a man than any woman I know.”

That earned her a grin.

“Boy problems? That takes me back.”

It was how they’d met, after all.

“Boy problems, girl problems. Clarke problems.” She mused. “I could use some coffee, you want anything?”

When the answer was no she got up, returning with the biggest possible cup of black coffee.

“God.” Raven eyed it, then her, with concern. “What, did you just ask for a vat?”

Clarke took a long sip, ignoring her.

“Well, it’s too early for alcohol, so.” As she drank, Raven watched her.

“You’re hungover.” She observed. Clarke sighed.

“Yeah. I went to Portside last night. Met a girl-”

“Went home with girl.” Raven finished for her, shaking her head. “You’re usually in a better mood after getting laid.”

Clarke shrugged.

“I kind of feel like an asshole. I told her I’d call her.”

“Which you don’t plan on doing, obviously.”

“Yeah.” Clarke sighed.

“Hence the boy problems?”

“Hence the boy problems.”

“Okay.” Raven finished what was left of her blueberry muffin and sat back in her chair. “So, who’s the boy?”

“Bellamy Blake.” Clarke said quietly. Across from her, Raven straightened up.

“I’m sorry could you repeat that? It sounded like you said Bellamy Blake.”

Clarke glared.

“Oh. Wow.” Raven whistled. “So, if you have something going with O’s brother, what’s with the one night stand?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t have anything going with Bellamy. He lives with me, but that’s just a favour to Octavia. It’s strictly platonic.” Even though the way he’d looked at her earlier was anything but. Still, that didn’t mean anything. You stick a wet, mostly naked woman in front of a man, he’s going to look.

“Okay.” Raven looked confused. “Am I missing something?” She leaned forward.

“I don’t tell people I’ll call them.” Clarke said. Despite the noise of the café around them, a bubble of silence fell between the two women.

“Oh.” Raven said. Her dark eyes narrowed.

“Yeah.” Clarke agreed. “Oh.”

.

Clarke was half hoping Bellamy wouldn’t be home when they got there. Maybe he’d be out with Finn, or Octavia, it really didn’t matter to her.

But there he was, sitting on the loveseat, reading glasses perched across a constellation of freckles. He blinked when Clarke and Raven came in, pulled out of whatever riveting old report he was reading.

“Hey.” Clarke nodded at him, pulling her jacket off. Raven did the same, and they fell together onto the couch. “This is Bellamy.” She said, for Raven’s benefit.

“Well.” Raven squinted at him. “He’s very hot.” Clarke didn’t respond to that, just rolled her eyes.

Bellamy opened his mouth then closed it again.

“Are you two drunk?” He asked, glancing at the clock. It was just after 1 pm.

“No. Just a little wired.” Clarke told him. “Bellamy, this is Raven Reyes. She’s my mechanic.”

Raven gave a strange little salute. Bellamy frowned.

“Your…mechanic.” He repeated. She nodded.

“I take care of that beautiful machine our Clarke so takes for granted.” Raven said, propping her feet up on the coffee table. Bellamy looked annoyed at that, which for some reason made Clarke’s heart flutter in her chest.

“Ah. The Charger.” He slid his glasses off, and Clarke found she missed them. Booknerd was a good look for him, suited everything about him.

“Mhmm.”

Raven hung around for an hour or so, then ducked out with the excuse of a waiting client. As she left, she leaned down to whisper in Clarke’s ear.

“Girl, you’re _so_ in trouble.”

Clarke watched her go, sighing.

“Yeah,” she muttered, “I know.”

.

As soon as the front door clicked shut, Bellamy got up, moving onto the couch beside her.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you say that your mechanic was the one who-”

“Finn cheated on me with?” Clarke asked.

“Uh, yeah.” His eyes came up to meet hers, curious.

“Yeah. She is.”

Bellamy rubbed his face, suddenly looking tired.

“You two seemed friendly.” He pointed out.

“Well,” She propped her feet up on the table the way Raven had done earlier. This time, Bellamy didn’t even notice. “We’re friends.”

“That’s a little weird.”

“Probably.” She agreed.

And just like that it was back, that feeling of home that Clarke had never realized was missing until it arrived in the form of her best friend’s brother. She couldn’t run again, so Clarke just pressed her thumbs against her closed eyelids and watched lights pop up in the darkness.

After a few minutes she heard Bellamy shift beside her, and then the rustling of pages. She opened one eye to see he’d picked up what he was reading earlier.

“What’s that?” She asked. He didn’t look up as he answered.

“Just some notes from Archer Collins’ journal. I’ve covered most of his relevant work already, but there’s some personal stuff in here I could use.” He was wearing his glasses again.

“How’s it going with Finn?” She didn’t really want to know, but she needed an idea of how long he’d be around. A few weeks she could probably hold it together. Longer than that? She might be in trouble.

“Uh.” This time he did look up. “Fine, I guess. He’s kind of a douche but he’s been pretty accommodating with all this stuff.” He gestured at the table, which was covered in paper and notebooks.

“Well.” Clarke picked up one the sheets in front of her, scanning what looked like a blueprint. Raven would have been able to make more sense of it than her. “In the time we were together I never really got the sense he cared much about his family tree. They’ve had a lot of skeletons, over the years.”

When she glanced back up she caught Bellamy staring at her.

“How long was that?” His voice was low, casual but…not. She raised an eyebrow.

“He’s never mentioned it?” She wondered. Bellamy snorted darkly.

“He’s not stupid enough to talk about your relationship in front of me. He thinks we’re together, remember?” 

Oh.” Clarke blinked. “Right. We, uh, dated for two years then he proposed. And we were engaged for almost a year when I found out about Raven.”

Bellamy frowned.

“Long engagement?”

Clarke tugged at a loose thread on her jeans.

“Not really. We broke up about two weeks before the wedding. My mom was _pissed_ , we lost most of our deposits. She made me pay for them.” Clarke remembered, her lips turning up into a hard smile.

“She _what_?” He gaped at her. “Your fiancé has an affair and she made you pay for the wedding?” She shrugged.

“She didn’t know. I’ve never told her why I called it off.” It was hard to explain, sometimes, the kind of distance that had grown between them since her father had died. It was like he was the bridge between the women in his life, and after he was gone, there was a canyon between them that Clarke could never really cross.

Expecting pity, she looked up at Bellamy. His glasses had slid down a ways, resting almost on the end of nose. But his expression was simply thoughtful.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “About your dad.”

Clarke stared at him. Had she been thinking out loud?

“I…thank you. I actually think you would have gotten along.” She mused. “I’m sorry about your mom. For what it’s worth, I think what you did for Octavia was incredible.”

It was quiet for a moment as he just looked at her, brown eyes intense in a way that made Clarke feel both warm and incredibly vulnerable.

“It’s worth something.” He finally said. “Thank you. I would say you and my mom would have gotten along but… I don’t remember that much of what she was like sober.”

Clarke fought the urge to wince. She might have lost her father, and a part of her mother, but at least she had always been able to count on them to take care of her. Octavia was so stubbornly resilient that Clarke sometimes forgot that her friend had lead an entirely different life. But Bellamy wore their childhood in a way his sister didn’t, it made him seem older, and darker.

“And my dad…” He sighed. Clarke straightened in her seat.

“I thought you didn’t know who your father was?” She didn’t mean to pry, but that was the story Octavia had always told.

“Uh,” he looked uncomfortable. “that’s not exactly true. I knew who he was, he was around when I was really young, on and off. He was gone when my mom got pregnant, came back before O was born. He left for good when Octavia was three.”

“Oh.” Clarke tried to reconcile that with what her friend had told her, and as the pieces fell into place her eyes went wide. “ _Oh_. Octavia doesn’t know that, does she?”

He shook his head, then sighed.

“Technically we’re half-siblings, she knows that. And I don’t know who her father is, he…”

He was a client. Bellamy didn’t need to say it.

“Octavia doesn’t know that either.” Clarke guessed. “She thinks your mom didn’t start…that until after she was born.”

Bellamy set his book down, staring at his knees. Clarke couldn’t believe it. She wished she’d never asked.

“Bellamy…” She wanted to tell him he had to tell his sister the truth. She had a feeling he already knew that. “You’re worried she won’t be able to handle it. You’re worried she’ll relapse.” Clarke realized. His head jerked up, eyes sad.

“That’s kind of annoying.” He sighed.

“What?”

“The mind reading thing.”

Clarke bit her lip.

“Sorry.”

The quiet was different this time. Something had shifted. Friends seemed like too simple a word for what they had become the moment he shared this with her, but it was the only one that came to mind.

“I think you’re wrong. Octavia is one of the strongest people I know. I’m starting to think she gets that from you.” Clarke nudged him with her shoulder.

“She’ll hate me for not telling her.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say to that.

“She’ll find out eventually, Bellamy. Secrets like that are impossible to keep, trust me. And she’ll hate you more if she finds out from someone else.” She thought of the night Thelonious Jaha had come for dinner, letting slip that her father’s heart attack hadn’t been an accident. That was a secret her mother had kept for two years, and it had only served to drive the wedge between them further apart.

He dropped his head into his hands.

“You can’t tell a kid something like that, and then the older she got it just got harder. I was waiting for the right time.” His voice was muffled by his fingers.

“I don’t think there’s going to be one.” Clarke poked at the back of his neck. “But now that you’ve told me you have to tell her.”

He finally glanced up and shot her a look that told her he was well aware of that.

“You can’t protect her from everything, Bellamy.” She said softly. “If it was anyone else, I would say don’t tell her. But Octavia…she’d want to know. As harsh as it is, she just wants the truth. Always.”

He knew she was right, she could tell.

Clarke glanced up at the clock, and was startled to see it was already after four. She was supposed to be meeting Anya at the gallery in less than half an hour. She jumped to her feet.

“I’ve got to go. O’s off today, maybe now would be a good time to tell her. Before you talk yourself out of it.” She gave him a pointed look. He just pursed his lips. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

“I’ve heard that before.” He muttered, voice low. Clarke ignored it.


	7. Chapter 7

“What do you mean it sold?” Clarke gaped at the woman standing in front of her.

“I mean a customer came in, saw it, and asked to buy it.” Anya murmured, lips quirking.

“But that painting has only been here two days!” Clarke sputtered.

“Well,” Anya sighed, “clearly we were undercharging. I would guess you could charge double for the next piece, maybe more. Do you have anything else that is finished?”

Clarke just stared at her. A couple days ago she had brought the Kitsilano painting in, with no real expectations. If the piece _did_ sell, she had expected it to take weeks, maybe months. And once she’d found out what Anya was planning to charge, her doubts that it would move turned to certainty it would not.

“I…” She tried to pull it together. “I have two smaller pieces and another one the same size. I can bring them in tomorrow if you want to take a look.”

Anya nodded.

“Fine. But not tomorrow. I need to process the sale to get your cut. You get your canvases and bring them back today, and I will have your money ready.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Um, sure.” Clarke said, blinking. The whole thing felt surreal. It was almost unheard of for amateur artists to sell for anything over a couple grand. And her first painting had just gone for $15,000. She turned to go, still a little dazed.

“Oh and Clarke?” Anya’s voice trailed behind her. Clarke turned back. “Don’t look so surprised. You are incredibly talented.”

The taller woman gave her a knowing smile, and then left to attend to a small group of customers. Clarke made her way back to the Charger with her head in the clouds.

By the time she got back to her apartment she’d been gone for almost an hour. Octavia’s motorcycle was parked in front of her building, and for a moment Clarke wondered whether she should give the siblings some space. But she’d promised to take Anya a few more pieces and the gallery closed at six, so she headed up the stairs, a little nervous to interrupt what could be a massive Blake family blowout.

The hallway outside her door was surprisingly quiet, and Clarke crossed her fingers that that was a good sign. She swung the door open loudly, announcing herself.

“Hey, I’m back.” She called. No answer.

Frowning, she walked into the living room to find Octavia lying on the floor, holding a magazine open above her head.

“Oh.” She looked up at the sound of Clarke’s heels on the hardwood. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Clarke looked around for some sign of Bellamy, but didn’t find one. “Where’s your brother?”

“He went out for a bit.” Octavia said. She looked exactly as she always did, eyes bright and sharp, lips curved in a way that managed to be beguiling while baring her teeth. She was beautiful but dangerous, and Clarke always pitied the men who were too distracted by her sex appeal to see the warning signs of a wild card. Then again, they usually deserved what they got.

But Clarke had been expecting tears, or at the very least anger, and all she saw was a little extra energy.

“Okay.” Clarke sat on the floor beside her friend. “Did you guys talk?”

Octavia nodded. Her eyes flicked over to study Clarke.

“You knew.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t a question either.

“As of,” Clarke glanced at the time on her phone, “about an hour ago.” She admitted. Octavia tossed the magazine aside and sat up.

“Huh.”

“You seem…okay.” Clarke observed.

Throwing her hands in the air, the brunette smiled.

“I’m always okay.”

“You just found out that your father was a John.” Clarke pointed out. “You probably shouldn’t be okay.” Briefly, she wondered if her friend was having one of those quiet meltdowns that always seemed normal until windows ended up broken.

“No.” Octavia sighed. “I didn’t.”

That stopped the wheels turning in Clarke’s head.

“What?”

“I didn’t just find out. I’ve known since I was, like, nine.”

Clarke stared.

“And you never told your brother?” She asked. Octavia made a face. “You two have serious communication issues, do you know that?”

“He obviously didn’t want me to know. But I’m not stupid, I figured it out. Anyways, my mom spilled the beans before she died, not that it was a surprise.”

For once, Clarke didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t know about Bell’s dad, though.” Octavia’s voice softened. “That’s…I guess it was just something we always had in common. We didn’t know our fathers, it was like we didn’t have any. So I could pretend they didn’t exist, that we were real siblings you know?”

Clarke didn’t know, because she didn’t have siblings. But she understood.

“O, the bond you guys have is way stronger than most kids who have the same parents. You’re real siblings, trust me.” She reached out, covering her friend’s hand with her own. Then she remembered Anya. “Shit!” She leapt to her feet. “I have to run an errand before it closes. You can hang out, we’ll talk when I get back.” Octavia shrugged and picked up her abandoned magazine.

Cursing herself for letting this happen twice in one day, Clarke grabbed the canvases she wanted out of her closet, hastily wrapping them before stumbling toward the door.

“Octavia!” She called, as she bumped into the wall for the second time. “Can you get the door for me?”

She couldn’t see past the jumble of brown paper in her arms, but there was the soft sound of bare feet padding across the floor, and then the click of her door opening.

“You’re going to explain this when you get back.” Octavia told her, holding open the door as Clarke shuffled through sideways.

“Of course.” Clarke puffed, almost tripping over the threshold. It wasn’t that the paintings were heavy, just awkward, and her arms strained to fit around them.

After securing them in the backseat, she took off toward the gallery, swearing when she realized she only had ten minutes to get there. Anya might stay open for her, but it would be unprofessional to be late, and Clarke was so green that she couldn’t really afford that.

She made it with seconds to spare, carting the first painting in with her as the last client was being ushered out.

“Hi.” She breathed, as Anya spotted her from behind the front desk.

“Hi.”

Clarke set her painting down on the counter. Anya tugged at the strings tying the paper on, and then carefully lifted the canvas out of it’s wrapping. Her eyes widened when she saw what it was.

“This is one of the smaller pieces?” She asked, scanning the tiny brushstrokes that made up the trees.

“Yeah.” Clarke nodded. “I have two others in the car, another like this and one the same size as the Kits piece.”

“Alright.” Anya set it back down, her expression unreadable. “I would like to see those, if you don’t mind.” She pulled an envelope from behind the counter and held it out. “And this is your payment for the piece that sold.”

Clarke took the envelope, sliding it open. She frowned when she saw the numbers written on the cheque.

“You only took 20% commission.” Her eyes narrowed as she read it again, doing the math. That was unreasonably low for a gallery like this.

“All artists get their first piece for half our usual fee.” Anya told her.

“Ah.” That made more sense. “Alright, I’ll grab the other pieces.” Clarke said, tucking the envelope into her jacket pocket. It was strange that $12,000 could be so light.

Anya surveyed the next two pieces with the same poker face as the first. Clarke’s hands began to sweat. She’d left a job that most medical students would kill for, for this, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was the moment of truth. The Kits piece was one of her favourites, and what if her others weren’t as good? What if none of them would sell? She’d never painted with other people in mind, it had all been for herself.

After a few minutes of Anya staring silently at the three paintings lined up in front of her, Clarke couldn’t stand the silence.

“I’m dying here.” She muttered, and Anya turned an almond shaped eye on her.

“We will sell all of these.” She said. The dazed feeling returned, along with a sense of déjà vu.

“Um,” unable to think of anything else to say, Clarke just responded with: “alright.”

“These two.” Anya pointed at the square canvases, two landscapes of an old campsite Clarke used to visit with her father, a river cutting through the forest, Mount Baker cutting through the skyline. They made her smile, but she couldn’t keep everything she made. “Are they a set?”

Clarke cocked her head, one was done in the early morning light, the sky still tinted orange with the sun not fully risen. The other was an evening perspective, a fire dancing in the foreground and dusk just touching the tops of the trees. She shook her head.

“No, I think they’re individuals.”

“Alright. They should sell for more that way, anyways.”

Clarke shot her a sideways glance.

“If I ask about pricing am I setting myself up for a heart attack?” She wondered. Anya grinned.

“You are the only artist I’ve worked with who gets sticker shock from their own paintings.” She mused. “Although I’m not sure whether that speaks more to your talent or your modesty.”

It was a compliment, certainly, but it only made Clarke nervous. When she didn’t say anything, Anya sighed.

“We can lower the prices if they don’t sell, but…”

“Anya.” Clarke warned.

“I would say 20 for these.” She gestured at the campsite scenes.

“Twenty-thousand?” Clarke deadpanned.

“Each.”

It was enough to make her head spin, but Anya was already frowning down at the third painting. That one was of the water, something she’d sketched in a boat off the shore of a lake and painted mostly from memory. It faced the shoreline, the rough jut of rock cutting sharply into the green water, trees thickly carpeting the land, a darker green than the jade of the surf. It was what the water always looked like when it clouded over, dark and wet and still somehow saturated with colour. You could see the rough surface of the water, sprays of white on the peaks, but it was still calming, somehow.

“This one we’ll tag at thirty.” Anya decided. True to her word, that was twice what the first painting had sold for. Clarke felt lightheaded.

“Sure.” She said weakly. Anya looked over at her and shook her head.

“I know it seems like a lot. And it is, actually. We don’t often sell pieces from new artists for so much. But your work is unique, Clarke. And even for your first painting, there was a lot of interest. If you keep bring in pieces like this…” Anya gestured at the ones in front of her. “These will sell purely on their beauty. Once your name is recognizable, their value will only increase.”

It was a lot. Too much, maybe. Anya seemed to recognize that.

“Thank you.” Clarke murmured. “This has been…a huge day for me. I quit my job.” She admitted. Anya sighed.

“I know the saying is _not_ to quit your day job, but…in your case I think you made the right decision.”

Clarke smiled.

“I should get going. I’ll leave these with you.”

Anya nodded.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Goodnight.”

.

By the time Clarke got home, Bellamy was back. She knew the instant she opened her front door, and the smell of stir fry hit her nose. Octavia’s bike was still out front, so she assumed the full set of Blakes were around somewhere.

“Clarke!” Octavia greeted her before Clarke could even get her shoes off. “Bell’s been asking me where you went. Something about a disappearing act you pulled last night?”

Clarke cringed.

“I had some business stuff.”

Octavia raised her eyebrows.

“What kind of business?”

Clarke kicked off her shoes, following her nose into the kitchen.

“That smells good.” She murmured, ignoring Octavia. Bellamy looked up, smirking.

“What are you going to do when I leave?” He asked. “You can’t go back to eating takeout for every meal. You know how unhealthy that is, you’re a doctor.” He paused. “Well, sort of.”

Clarke stuck out her tongue at him, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. Octavia had apparently already helped herself to a bottle of wine, and Bellamy had what appeared to be a Jack and Coke sitting on the counter beside him.

Suddenly, his words sunk in. Leaving. She kept forgetting that was something inevitable. He had only been there a couple weeks, but he already fit into her routine. He was right, it was hard to imagine going back to the way her life had been before. She no longer had a job that required her to work sixty hours a week, being on call for whatever remained. Most of the time she’d gotten back from quitting she now spent with him.

“I don’t know.” She said quietly. He regarded her thoughtfully, eyes curious, then looked back at the mushrooms he was slicing.

“So are you going to tell me what you were up to today?” Octavia asked, dropping onto the bar stool next to her. Clarke wasn’t sure she was ready to share everything, Bellamy still didn’t know about the painting.

“Well,” she turned to face Octavia, “being that I am technically unemployed, I decided to sell some stuff. I need the cash.” Her friend caught on, eyes widening in interest.

“And?”

“And I think I’ll take us out for drinks after dinner.” Clarke grinned. Her own smile was rivalled only by Octavia’s.

“That’s great!” Octavia clapped her hands, then realized her brother was staring curiously between them. Dialing down the enthusiasm, she turned back to Clarke. “We should go to Portside. I haven’t been in ages and it’s 80’s night.”

“Sure.” Clarke took a swig of her beer. The reality of her situation, of her day, was finally beginning to sink in. After a few minutes of Blake bickering, Octavia seemed to pick up on how quiet Clarke had gone.

“Are you alright?” The brunette asked, cutting off her conversation with Bellamy. Her older brother turned to look at Clarke, confused.

“I’m uh…” Clarke shrugged, though her mouth had gone dry. “I think I’m going to just grab a sweater.” She murmured. She headed toward her bedroom, dazed.

When she turned to grab a cardigan out of her closet, she was surprised to find that Octavia had followed her.

“What’s going on?” Her friend’s arms were crossed, concern all over her face. Not sure how to describe it, Clarke just reached inside the jacket she had discarded on her bed, and handed the envelope inside to Octavia.

There were a few seconds of silence, Octavia flipping it open and pulling out the cheque. And then there was that intake of breath, identical, Clarke was sure, to the one she had taken earlier that day.

“What is this?” The cheque was being waved, almost angrily, in the air. “Where the hell did you get this?”

Clarke blinked.

“The gallery.” She had expected surprise, certainly, and maybe even a little skepticism, but there was an accusatory tone in Octavia’s voice that was catching her off guard.

“The…your painting? Your painting sold for twelve grand?”

Clarke knew her friend didn’t mean to be insulting, so she let the absolute disbelief on O’s face slide.

“Fifteen, actually. But the gallery takes commission, so. I can’t believe it either. Octavia…” Clarke trailed off, face going numb. Her hands moved forward of their own accord, settling on Octavia’s shoulders.

“Holy shit.” The youngest Blake stared back at her. “HOLY SHIT!” For a moment the only sound in the room was their breathing, and then the door burst open. Bellamy stood there, chef’s knife in hand, eyes wide with concern. The girls stared at him.

“Are you okay?” He asked, looking like he was slowly realizing he had probably just overreacted. Octavia rolled her eyes.

“We’re fine. Dying of starvation, but you know, fine.” She said, narrowing her eyes at him. He sighed. Clarke wasn’t sure she would ever really figure out the rhythm of their relationship. His eyes ghosted over the cheque in Octavia’s hands, but didn’t linger long enough to read it.

“Um, right.” He began to back out of the room. “Sorry.”

When he was gone, Octavia turned to Clarke.

“Are you ever going to tell him?”

Clarke shrugged.

“I mean…when he first got here I didn’t tell him because I didn’t think he’d be around that long. But now…I don’t know. I guess I will eventually.” She considered that there wasn’t any _good_ reason to keep it from him anymore, especially now that she was actually selling, but for some reason she was still hesitant. Octavia frowned for a moment, then apparently decided to let it go.

“Okay, well, I’m sorry I freaked out.” Octavia’s cheeks flushed. “The way I grew up…money like that was usually a red flag. I forget that it’s different for you.”

Clarke forgot the differences in their childhoods sometimes, too. And she knew exactly where her friend’s mind had gone.

“It’s fine, I probably would have done the same thing. I kind of did, actually, at the gallery.” She mused. Octavia glanced back down at the cheque.

“Okay, well, you’re definitely buying drinks tonight.” She murmured, a grin creeping over her face. “You know, I’m a _big_ fan of Patron. I might even go for Platinum tonight.”

Clarke shook her head.

“I am not drinking tequila with you again. And besides, you realize your brother is going to be there? He’s going to start thinking I’m a bad influence.”

Octavia shrugged, then slapped her forehead.

“Oh my god. I totally forgot to tell you. Saturday is Bell’s birthday.”

“October 11th. Right. Shit, I haven’t gotten him anything.” Clarke had loosened up a lot since she met Octavia, but the part of her that hated to be unprepared for anything felt a twinge of anxiety.

If Octavia looked slightly suspicious at the fact that Clarke already knew when her brother’s birthday was, she didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think you have to, really. You’ve only known him a few weeks, and from what I hear you’re cutting him a pretty sweet deal on the rent.”

It was an out, but Clarke found she didn’t want one.

“Mmm. I’ll figure something out. Are you guys doing anything?” She wondered how many birthdays in the past few years the siblings had actually been together for. For some reason, she got the feeling it wasn’t a lot.

They seemed close, closer than any other siblings Clarke knew, but there was something about the way they spent time together that gave it away. Like maybe it would be a long time before they saw each other again. It seemed like Bellamy got by, financially, but it couldn’t be easy to fly all the way across the country all the time, even for a writer. Octavia didn’t have the funds for something like that, she was making enough as a personal trainer to pay the bills, but didn’t have a lot left over. Clarke made a mental note to buy her friend a round trip to Toronto for her next birthday.

“I was thinking of throwing a party at my place, it’s kind of small, but it’s not like he really knows anyone here anyways.” Octavia said, pulling Clarke back to the moment.

She frowned.

“You know…why don’t you have it here? It could be a surprise.” Clarke offered. Her place was a lot bigger than Octavia’s. “And I think I might be able to help with the guest list.”

Her friend looked surprised.

“That would be great, actually. What can I do to help?”

They talked details for long enough that Bellamy came banging on the door again, announcing dinner. By the time they were finished they had most of the plan taken care of. Octavia was going to take Bellamy to dinner, so at least they would make sure he had the night set aside. She would take him to Hawksworth, a restaurant that was guaranteed to be fully booked on a Saturday night. Hopefully they would be out of the apartment long enough for Clarke to get everything, and everyone, set up. It wasn’t foolproof, but as Octavia said, he wouldn’t be expecting much.

“Is this zucchini?” Clarke poked at one of the green things on her plate. Bellamy looked up at her.

“Yeah.”

She slid the piece, and several others, to the side of her place, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She smiled apologetically.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to be picky, just allergic.”

His eyebrows went up.

“Shit. Sorry.” He glanced at the table, where the only things available were a big wok of stir-fry and half of a baguette. “I didn’t know. I can throw a steak on the grill for you.”

Clarke watched the way the corners of his mouth turn down in disappointment. But he looked more disappointed in himself than anything else. She popped a carrot into her mouth.

“Bellamy, it’s fine. I’m not that allergic, just can’t eat big chunks of it.”

He didn’t look convinced. Clarke took a big forkful of the stir-fry and shoved it in her mouth, barely able to close her lips around it.

“Mmm.” She mumbled, chewing, and Octavia snorted beside her. Bellamy sighed. Their eyes met for a moment, his nose crinkling when he smiled, those freckles dusted across it. A few _weeks_. That’s how long she’d known him. But here he was, perfectly at home in her apartment, and as much as she tried to shake it, she was beginning to wonder what she was going to do when he left.

So she forced a smile in return, and threw one of her zucchini pieces at Octavia when her beer was magically empty after Clarke had only had a sip.

.

Portside was crowded, because a Thursday is really as good as any when it’s 80’s night at the bar. Bellamy just sat there, bemused, when Madonna plunked a couple shots of tequila in front of them.

“Stop staring.” Clarke nudged him. He shook his head, like a dog cleaning water from their ears.

“His beard doesn’t go with his bra.” Bellamy pointed out, sliding one of the shots toward her. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“Nothing goes with a cone-bra.” She informed him. She lifted her shot, followed closely by both of the Blakes. “To me not being broke, despite not being a doctor.” She said.

“Here, here.” Octavia clinked their glasses together, and Bellamy, who still didn’t know why they were really celebrating, gave a kind of confused nod.

Clarke tipped the shot back, then signalled for another round. Bellamy was staring at his glass. His sister poked him.

“Bell? You okay?”

He looked up at Clarke.

“What are we drinking, exactly?” He asked. Clarke directed him toward Octavia, who had ordered in the first place.

“Patron Platinum.” The petite brunette said, tilting her head curiously. “Why?”

He gaped at her.

“Why are we drinking $250 tequila?”

“We’re celebrating.” Clarke reminded them. “I came into a little money today, and I think I’ve found a viable way to support myself despite being unemployed, so…” She shrugged. “Expensive tequila.”

Octavia was watching them, a wary look in her eye. Clarke could just tell him the truth, but when she opened her mouth, it stuck in her throat.

He didn’t push it further, and they made their way through a couple more rounds before Octavia decided she wanted to dance.

The music was the kind of 80’s pop that made you immediately forget people were watching. Clarke sank into it, along with Octavia, and they were soon split up by a couple guys wanting to cut in. By the time Clarke realized she’d lost track of Bellamy, it had been almost forty-five minutes. She ducked out on the guy currently holding her a _little_ lower than her hips, and scanned the crowd. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck, and she could practically feel her face glowing pink with a combination of exertion and alcohol. After a few moments she spotted him, back against the bar, chatting with a blonde Clarke didn’t recognize.

As she made her way over to them, it occurred to Clarke that he might not want to be interrupted. But he had already caught sight of her, and it would look strange for her to suddenly dart in another direction. Slightly breathless, she closed the distance between them and nodded at the girl.

“Hi.” She smiled, despite not really feeling it. The girl smiled back, hers looking a little more genuine than Clarke’s felt.

“This is Monroe.” Bellamy nodded at the blonde to his left. “We used to work on a paper together.” Clarke hadn’t known that, that Bellamy used to work at a newspaper. She imagined him in one of those brown fedoras, shouting at a staffer. Her lips quirked.

“I’m Clarke, it’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, which was a tiny bit sweaty, but Monroe didn’t seem to mind. It was then that Clarke noticed exactly how close the two of them were standing, and something in her stomach twisted unpleasantly. Bellamy leaned around Monroe, signalling the bartender back over. The way he curved around her, well, they didn’t look like coworkers.

It wasn’t any of Clarke’s business, though. So she pressed her lips together to keep from saying something petty and jealous, and only opened them to accept the shot that Bellamy passed her.

After a couple minutes of small talk, Bellamy’s phone rang. He shot them both an apologetic glance, and headed for the door.

“So.” Once he was gone, Monroe turned to Clarke. “What’s the deal with you two?”

Clarke blinked, caught a little off guard by the other girl’s bluntness. Then she shrugged.

“There is no deal. He’s staying with me while he’s in town as a favour to Octavia.” Suddenly remembering her friend, Clarke scanned the dancefloor, and saw the brunette rubbing up against a guy with a face tattoo. When she glanced back at Monroe, the blonde was staring at her appraisingly.

“I thought she was sober.” Monroe noted, following Clarke’s eyeline to Octavia. Fighting the urge to revert to the very mature reply of _that’s none of your business_ , Clarke just shrugged again.

“It’s complicated. She’s fine, though.” Clarke suddenly had an idea. “Hey you used to work with Bellamy around here, right?”

Monroe nodded, looking curious at the change of topic.

“Do you know anyone else he kept in touch with? Like friends in the area?”

That got another nod.

“There are a few guys, and Roma. Why?” She asked, downing the rest of her drink. Clarke was beginning to feel lightheaded, but the bartender set down another round before she’d even had the chance to ask.

“Octavia’s throwing Bellamy a birthday thing, on Saturday. You should come. And if there’s anyone else you think he’d want there, tell them to come too.” Clarke threw back something that tasted like medicine, probably Jager, and watched Octavia finally tire herself out. Her eyes fell on Bellamy, pushing his way back through the front door.

“Sure.” Clarke looked up to see Monroe smiling again. “I’ll be there. And I’ll see who else I can drag along.” She shut up as Bellamy reached them, but Clarke mouthed a quick thank you over his shoulder.

“What are you guys talking about?” He asked, looking between them suspiciously. Clarke smiled mischievously.

“You.”

He paled a little, then coughed. Monroe laughed.

“I should actually get going. Clarke, why don’t you give me your number.” She held out her phone, and Clarke took it, stifling her own laughter at the look on Bellamy’s face. She handed back the phone, now one contact heavier, and Monroe kissed Bellamy on the cheek before taking off.

“You two seemed to get along pretty well.” He observed, taking the drink out of Clarke’s hand and sipping it. She scowled.

“Thief.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You ready to go?”

It sounded like he was, and Clarke was beginning to pick up on the fact that his mood had darkened significantly since he got back from that phone call. She nodded.

“Sure. I’ll close out the tab if you want to get O.”

They both look over at where some guy has his hand in a place Octavia does not seem to want it. Bellamy’s face tightened.

“Yeah.” He muttered. “I’ll get her.”

Clarke caught him by the back of his shirt.

“Don’t make a scene.” She warned him. “Your sister is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

He just grunted and stomped away. Clarke turned back to the bar, pulling out a credit card and catching the attention of the Madonna who’d been serving them drinks all night.

The cab ride home was quiet, Bellamy in the middle, both girls resting their heads on his shoulders. Clarke caught the expression of their cab driver in the mirror, and muffled a snicker into Bellamy’s shirt. As they were piling out, the driver gave him a wink.

“What was that about?” Bellamy wondered, making his way up the steps.

Clarke snorted.

“He was really impressed with you. I think he thought we were going to have a threesome.” She mused, still snickering as she slid the key into the lock. It swung open, and he walked past her, looking horrified. She tried not to be offended by that.

“We are two very hot girls.” Octavia sighed, flopping onto the couch. “You lucky bastard.”

Clarke continued to laugh, while Bellamy just made a face.

“Cut it out. Why didn’t you just go home, anyways?” He asked, sitting on the couch next to his sister. Octavia shrugged, kicking her shoes halfway across the room.

“My bike is here. Easier.” Her voice was muffled into the couch cushions.

“Do you ever actually _ask_ if you can crash here?” He wondered. But she was already asleep.

Clarke was determinedly draining the entire pitcher of water that had been in the fridge, when Bellamy wandered in from the living room.

He just raised an eyebrow, watching her.

“No more hangovers.” She declared, finishing what was left and then sitting it in the sink.

“Ah.” He nodded in understanding.

“So.” Clarke folded her arms across her chest. “Do you want to talk about the phone call?”

The amusement slipped off his face, tension replacing it.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Clarke said, backpedaling at the tone of his voice. “It just seemed to upset you, and I thought-”

“That you would pry? Because you need to know everything about my life?” He retorted, each word like a gunshot. Clarke stepped back, shocked.

“Um, no, I’m sorry, I just thought maybe you’d want to talk about it.” She raised her hands in surrender.

“I don’t want to talk to you about it.” He said. “I’ve already got a sister, I don’t need another. And maybe we’re friends-” _maybe?_ “but if I want to talk about something, I will. If I wanted to tell you about that, I would have.”

Clarke stared at him. She wasn’t sure where this was coming from, wasn’t sure what she’d done wrong.

“Okay.” She said quietly. Seeing him like this, cold and angry, it was like looking at a stranger. And, Clarke realized, that’s really what he was. She’d known him a few weeks, seen what he’d let her see. This fantasy she’d created in her head, of them being friends, of them having this _connection_ , it was exactly that. In her head.

She let her hands fall, and shoved them into her pockets.

“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

He didn’t say anything, and the silence followed her to bed.

Just as she plugged in her phone, Clarke realized she’d missed two texts from an unknown number.

_Hey, it’s Monroe._

_I’ll be there on Saturday, and I roped in like 9 other guys, hope that’s okay. It’s nice that you’re doing this for him, you guys must be close._

Clarke set it down with a sigh. She’d forgotten about the party. She wasn’t sure Monroe was right, about them being close, not after whatever the hell had just happened in the kitchen. But one thing was undeniable. Her life had gotten infinitely more complicated since Bellamy Blake had walked into her life. And it was probably about to get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like things with Bell aren't going as well as Clarke had hoped. Next up: the party.
> 
> P.S. Love the comments, thanks guys :)


	8. Chapter 8

Clarke got up early, too early, according to the twinge in her head. It wasn’t a pounding, so much as an uncomfortable pulsing, and she chocked that up to a win as far as guzzling water the night before. She didn’t want to see Bellamy. He had a problem, obviously, and though she suspected it wasn’t with her, she didn’t think she was up to dealing with his anger. Not after the way his words the night before had sliced just deep enough to draw blood.

               But there was a lot to do, she still had to plan the party, he was Octavia’s brother after all. So she slipped out of the house while it was still dark, deciding to go for a run for the first time in what felt like ages.

               It was late enough in the year that the street lamps were still lit when she left, just after seven. Her breath puffed out in little clouds in front of her, and the cold air wicked at the sweat that beaded on her forehead. She’d been in better shape, but the burning in her lungs wasn’t unbearable, so she pressed on when her legs began to tingle.

               She didn’t know what Bellamy’s problem was. Something had clearly upset him, and it was also clear that whatever it was, he didn’t want to talk about it. And he was right, maybe, in that she overstepped her bounds sometimes, but there was a reason she’d agreed to go to medical school, and among other things that included a deep desire to help people. She wasn’t always good at it. And sometimes, maybe a lot of the time, it was unsolicited.

Clarke remembered the way he’d looked at her, that _maybe we’re friends_. She felt used, and stupid, and angry. His life was his life, and he would leave soon, and she would go back to eating takeout every night and picking up people at bars. It had worked fine for her before. She even had her painting to focus on now, something she’d wanted since she was a kid. She didn’t need him.

But she wanted him. Even after last night. She wanted him to stay.

Coming to a stop, she rested her hands on her knees, panting. She’d gone farther than she’d meant to, subconsciously putting as much distance between her and her problems as her body could manage. Somehow, she’d made it all the way to the water, the crash of waves punctuated by the sound of gulls overhead. The water was grey, like most other days, and she leaned against a tree, watching it while she caught her breath. On the beach, an older couple walked hand in hand, tufts of white hair fluttering in the breeze.

Clarke had wanted that, once upon a time. And then her father had died, and it turned out her mother betrayed him, and the man that she tried to use to patch herself back together after all that decided she wasn’t enough for him.

So it probably wasn’t in the cards for her, the whole growing old with someone thing. She would just have to settle for painting and partying, and live her whole life off the high of proving her mother wrong. It could be worse.

She turned back, legs already complaining at the thought of running the miles back to her apartment. But despite what her mother might say, Clarke was not a quitter, and she shuffled back into a jogging pace, just hoping to make it back before the others were awake so she could shower in peace.

The sun was almost up by the time she got there, and in the middle of October she knew that meant it was close to ten. Surprisingly, the place was still quiet, and she managed to slip into the shower without waking Octavia, who was still passed out on the couch.

As she stepped out of the shower, she realized she hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Hoping the others were still asleep, she slid the door open, and ran straight into Bellamy. He reached out automatically to steady her, hand clamped around her arm. As she straightened up, his eyes slid down to where the towel barely wrapped around her chest. She shook off his hand, annoyed. It reminded her too much of the last time this had happened, and how different things had been between them.

“See something you like?” She snapped, taking a step back. He blinked, the sleepy confusion on his face quickly turning to irritation.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” He said, shrugging. Clarke sucked in a breath, sad, but unsurprised, to find that his attitude hadn’t changed from the night before. She clutched the towel a little more tightly around herself, hating the way he made her feel raw and soft and exposed just by looking at her. It hadn’t been as much of a problem when he wasn’t using that as a weapon against her. But he was now, and it was effective.

She had to physically bite her tongue to keep from replying, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. He was angry and bitter about something, and Clarke was quickly finding just how contagious those two things could be. Stepping around him, she padded toward her bedroom. She waited to hear him close the door, to start the shower, but nearly five minutes passed before she finally heard the water run. It sounded like he had just been standing there.

She flopped down on her bed, naked, and groaned when her phone started buzzing. She picked it up without looking at the screen.

“Hello?” She mumbled, voice partially muffled into her comforter.

“Um, Clarke, hi, is this a bad time?” The voice on the other end was female, and vaguely familiar, and Clarke turned her face just enough to check the caller ID.

“Oh.” She murmured, sitting up and pulling the blanket over her chest, even though no one could see her. “No, Monroe, hi. What’s up?” Sitting there, she suddenly noticed a bruise on her shin. She didn’t remember getting it, and poked at it with her toe. It throbbed enough to be new.

“I was just wondering if we were doing gifts, you know, tomorrow night? It would be awkward if only half of us did…” Monroe trailed off. Clarke pressed the heel of her palm against her eye, watching spots dance behind it.

“I don’t know.” She said tiredly. “I’m sure Octavia will, and I guess I probably should too. I’m not even sure how many people are coming. If O invites people who don’t know him that well, they probably won’t.”

It had occurred to her that Octavia might invite the crew, Monty and Jasper and the whole crowd. Bellamy would probably get along well with Miller, as long as Miller kept his mouth shut about certain things. With the mood the eldest Blake was currently in, Clarke wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Then again, so far he seemed to be reserving his mood swings specifically for her.

“What are you getting him?” Monroe asked, pulling her back to the moment. Clarke fought the urge to groan.

“I’m not actually sure yet. I haven’t known him that long, you know. I don’t really know him.” _I thought I did, though_.

“He’s a huge history nerd.” Monroe mused. “Anything Roman is usually good, or just like historical figures and stuff. He’s actually pretty easy to please.”

Something in her voice tipped Clarke off to what she had begun to suspect last night. The two of them had definitely been more than coworkers at some point. She sighed.

“Thanks. I’ll figure something out. You’re coming at seven, right?”

They spoke for a little while longer, hammering out some of the details. Monroe was bringing at least twelve other people, ones who’d worked with and liked Bellamy. It probably wasn’t going to be a big party, but at least it wouldn’t be Octavia and Clarke standing in a room, the latter pretending she didn’t want to punch the birthday boy all night.

Eventually, Bellamy left to go meet up with Finn, and Clarke dragged herself out into the living room, collapsing on top of an unconscious Octavia.

“Wake up.” She muttered, bouncing a little on top of her friend. Octavia groaned.

“You’re the worst. I hate you. I hope you die.”

The death threats were par for the course, generally, and Clarke smiled. It wasn’t too often that she was the first one up out of the two of them.

“I need to talk to you about your brother’s birthday before he gets back.” She insisted.

Octavia rolled over with a sigh, opening one eye irritably.

“What?” She asked flatly, looking entirely unamused at the wake up call.

“Who are you inviting?”

“Um, probably the guys. Lincoln is flying out so if he can make it on time he’ll be there.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow at that. The last time he’d been in town Bellamy had just gotten here as well, but as far as she knew, they’d never met. Octavia caught the look on her face and rolled her eyes.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh really?” Clarke grinned. “How many of the guys you’ve dated have actually met your brother?”

Octavia thought about it for a moment. Clarke rolled her eyes.

“I’m guessing that means none. It’s okay to be excited about it, you know.”

But Octavia was too cool for that, so she just shrugged. Clarke ran through her to-do list for the day.

“Okay, you need to get the cake, and the booze, I’ll get the rest of the food.” Clarke started ticking things off on her fingers. “Make sure people know to be here by seven, or to wait until like eight if they’re going to be late, just in case.”

Octavia nodded, falling back asleep.

“And don’t you have a client in like, twenty minutes?” Clarke wondered. Some pushy businessman had paid O significantly above her usual fee in order to get a standing training session every Saturday at noon. Beneath her, her friend groaned.

Just then, Bellamy walked back through the door, taking in his roommate sitting on his sister with barely a raised brow. Clarke ignored him, but climbed off the couch.

“Get going.” Clarke muttered, prodding Octavia. The lump on the couch got up with a sigh, shooting her a reproachful glance as it retreated for the door. A few minutes later, the tell-tale roar of a motorcycle announced her departure. Clarke turned to Bellamy, evaluating him. He didn’t look openly hostile, but she wasn’t sure that meant anything. He was watching her back, arms crossed.

“I’m not going to be here tomorrow night.” He told her, and she understood that it was just a courtesy. She also wondered if he was digging to find out whether she’d remembered his birthday.

“I know.” She said, meeting his stare. It felt like a standoff, and it also felt stupid. She dropped her shoulders with a sigh. “Octavia said she’s taking you out to dinner.”

He just nodded. The energy between them wasn’t awkward, exactly, but things had been so easy before all this that they could both feel acutely the shift in the dynamic.

“Okay.” Clarke shrugged, turning on her heel. She had food to arrange, and still needed to figure out a gift for him. Even if he was an asshole. “I’m going out.”

Once upon a time she would have told him where, and a couple days ago he probably would have asked if she didn’t. But that wasn’t where they were anymore.

“Okay.”

.

Later, Clarke sat in the corner of Caffe Artigiano, ticking things off her mental list. She was in the middle of trying to remember whether or not Bellamy had said he liked spicy food, or that he _loathed_ it, when suddenly Raven dropped into the seat across from her.

“Hey.” Clarke blinked. _Liked_ , she decided. She was pretty sure Bellamy liked spicy food.

“Hi.” Raven sipped at a mug of what Clarke was sure was black coffee. The girl was too healthy for her own good. Then again, this place had some of the best coffee in the city. Raven peered curiously at the near mountain of bags heaped at the base of the table. “What’s all this stuff?”

“It’s for-” Clarke suddenly cut off, slapping a hand to her forehead. “God I’m such an idiot. What are you doing tomorrow?”

Raven eyed her suspiciously.

“I don’t think anything. Are you having a party or something?” She took another look at the bags, two of which were from a party store. Clarke winced.

“Yeah, it’s Bellamy’s birthday, I don’t know why I didn’t think to invite you.” She muttered. Raven just took another gulp of coffee, rolling her eyes.

“Maybe because I don’t know him?”

“Well,” Clarke took out her phone, shooting off a quick text to Octavia. “You know him better than everyone else Octavia is bringing.”

Raven raised an eyebrow.

“The whole gang? Why?”

“He doesn’t know a ton of people here. And a party of two people is kind of pathetic.” She said, starting to wish that they had just done that anyways. “But I ran into someone he used to work with here, and she’s going to bring some of his old coworkers, so it should be fine.”

When she looked up from her phone, Raven was staring intently at her.

“What?” Her hand went to her cheek. “Is there something on my face?”

“No.” Raven shook her head. “Something’s up with you. What’s wrong?”

They hadn’t been friends for a particularly long time, but then again most of Clarke’s closest friends were recent ones, as her med school buddies hadn’t been her favourite people to be around. They say no one has an ego like a surgeon, and Clarke now personally knew that to be true. But Raven was looking at her like she knew, and in the barely five minutes they’d been talking, she’d already picked up on Clarke’s bad mood.

“Just suddenly remembering why having a roommate is a pain in the ass.” She muttered. Raven leaned back in her seat.

“Ah, yes. Especially male ones.” She said knowingly. Raven often complained to Clarke about her own roommate, a mouthy engineer who had a name none of them could be bothered to correctly pronounce. They just called him Wick.

“Especially surly males whose pants we would like to get into.” Clarke agreed. Raven looked affronted.

“I do not want to get into Wick’s pants.” She replied, sticking out her bottom lip. Clarke laughed.

“Yes, you do. Not that I can blame you. He’s very pretty.”

Raven looked for a moment as though she were debating sticking out her tongue.

“So is Bellamy.” She eventually retorted. Clarke shrugged.

“Yeah, but I admitted I had a thing for him already. You’re still in denial.”

Raven suddenly perked up.

“ _Had_ a thing? As in you don’t anymore? It’s only been a few days.” When Clarke didn’t answer the brunette grew thoughtful. “Did he do something gross? Did you see him naked or something?” She wondered aloud. A stricken expression clouded her face. “Was _it_ , you know…disappointing? Small?”

Though the innuendo was not lost on Clarke, she chose to ignore it.

“He’s just being an asshole, that’s all. It’s probably for the best anyways. It’s not like it could go anywhere. I don’t do long-term relationships, let alone long _distance_. Besides, apparently he hates my guts, so.” She shrugged again.

“Hmm.” Raven drained her mug, watching Clarke. “So what time’s this party?”


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke got back to the loft sometime around 6. She’d stashed all of the party stuff at Octavia’s, and was picking up most of the food tomorrow. When she walked in, she heard Bellamy’s voice, slightly raised and obviously laced with anger.

“I don’t care that it’s been-” His voice was broken for a moment by the sound of the fridge door slamming. “Yeah, Katherine, I get it, but-no…there’s still a lot of research here. I’ll have the next chapter to you by Monday, okay? Fine.”

The apartment fell into silence, and Clarke imagined that if he had the ability, he would have hung up manually by slamming the phone into its receiver. There were some things technology had taken away from them, she mused. Apparently hanging up on someone, violently and angrily and _loudly_ , was one of those things. She cleared her throat as she shrugged off her coat, making her way into the kitchen.

He looked up when she came in, startled.

“Everything alright?” It seemed pointless to pretend she hadn’t heard. Although you would think she’d have learned her lesson about bothering him after his phone calls. The same thought seemed to cross his mind, his features drawing together.

“Fine.” He grunted, draining the last of whatever drink had been sitting on the counter. She kicked herself, mentally, for falling for this again. Whatever stick he’d had up his ass the night before, clearly it was still there.

“I don’t know why I asked.” She muttered, when his angry eyes followed her to the fridge. He snorted.

“Me neither.” His voice was tinged with malice, but for some reason Clarke felt he didn’t mean it. It pissed her off all the same.

“Well, I won’t ask again.” She said angrily, slamming the fridge door shut. She was surprised the thing didn’t just fall off after all the abuse it had suffered in the past five minutes. “I’ll leave you to sulk now.”

She twisted the top off her beer, flinging it into the trash can beside him, then stalked toward the living room. He might be annoying her, but it was her house after all, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him frighten her off to her bedroom every time they argued. Which, she suspected, was going to be frequently going forward.

She turned on the TV as loud as she could, just out of spite, and an ad came on for one of those fruit basket services. Reminded, again, of the fact that she still had to buy the cranky writer in her kitchen a birthday gift, she downed the entirety of her beer in one go, and closed her eyes.

Monroe had mentioned him being a history buff, which she’d already known about anyways And he was a writer, so she could always get him one of those notebooks he was always carrying around. But that was a pretty cheap gift, and he mostly worked on his laptop when he was writing now.

Then she remembered it. A little too personal, maybe, for how long she’d known him, but she didn’t have any other ideas.

.

The next 24 hours came and went, Bellamy being just as sullen as the past 24, though at least he was consistent, and Clarke stayed up all night finishing things for his party.

Octavia picked him up at seven on the dot, and Clarke was close behind them, running around like a madman picking up all the catering. Somehow, the guest list had expanded to something like fifty people, and Clarke had to make some last minute adjustments to make sure everyone would have something to eat.

Her and Octavia had traded vehicles for the evening, which seemed stupid in retrospect, as Clarke strapped a small mountain of food to the back of her friend’s Harley. But Bellamy liked to give his sister a hard time about the bike, and Octavia hadn’t really wanted to drive around with him on the back complaining and calling it a “donor cycle”, so Clarke had lent her the keys to the Charger.

_“Don’t drive like a crazy person. It’s a muscle car, it doesn’t take turns like the Harley does.” She said, dangling the keys in front of her. Octavia took them with a sigh._

_“I’ve driven a car before, Clarke.”_

_“And don’t let Bellamy drive!” She shouted, panicked, as the pair of them disappeared through the front door. He flipped her the bird behind his back, and she felt her fingernails dig into her palm._

But obviously Bellamy didn’t know about Clarke’s plans for the evening, so she hadn’t had a good reason to refuse. Which was why she was now roaring home with a tower of catering boxes and alcohol behind her back. She didn’t have her motorcycle license _per se_ , but when Octavia had been going through her rough patch, she’d taught Clarke to ride, and there had been more than one night since then when Clarke was the only one sober enough to get them home, and the bike had been the only vehicle available. Before Raven, the Charger had had some serious transmission issues.

She pulled up in front of her building with no gastronomical casualties, and waddled with the food back up to her place. There was light coming from under her door, and when she set the boxes down to unlock it, the door swung open by itself.

“Hello?” Clarke blinked, shuffling the food inside. She was greeted by a hug from a person she couldn’t see over the boxes, and the faint smell of weed. “Jasper?”

He pulled away, poking his head over the stack of catering.

“Hi.”  He smiled brightly, if a little dreamily. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” He took some of the load from her arms, and they walked them into the kitchen together.

“I know.” She said guiltily, realizing what a poor job she’d done at keeping in touch with her friends from the hospital. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, unconcerned.

“S’fine.” He opened one of the boxes, eyeing the bacon-wrapped scallops with interest. She slapped his hand away.

“Those are for later. How did you get into my apartment, anyways?” She wondered. She knew she’d locked the door when she left, and she’d definitely never given Jasper a key.

“I let him in.” A voice trailed over from behind her, and Clarke turned to see Raven setting up a ping pong table in the living room. Raven, on the other hand, did have a key. Finn had given it to her to return to Clarke after the break-up, and Clarke had just told her to keep it. Partially as a way to stick it to her ex-fiancé, and partly because she just liked her.  

“Aren’t we a little old for beer pong?” Clarke mused, starting to unload the food onto trays. Jasper helped, sneaking one of the tiny pizzas into his mouth. She pretended not to notice.

“Listen, when you’re as good as I am, you’re never too old for beer pong.” Raven said, popping a last table joint into place. She walked over to join them in the kitchen, detouring to the front door when the bell rang.

Voices trailed in from the entryway, a lot of them. When Clarke looked up, there were at least twenty more people in her house. She didn’t recognize most of them.

“Um.” She blinked. One face popped out in the crowd. “Hello.”

Monroe smiled at her.

“Hey, everyone this is Clarke. Clarke this is everyone.” She made a sweeping gesture, and Clarke appreciated her not introducing each person individually. That was a lot of names, something Clarke wasn’t very good with. She nodded in greeting.

“Hey. Did you all come together?” Even in a van, they couldn’t have fit. Monroe shrugged.

“Kind of. We met up for drinks ahead of time.”

That made more sense than them having taking a school bus, anyways, so Clarke gestured at the fridge.

“Okay, well there’s beer and stuff in there.” She pointed at the other table Raven had set up. “Bar’s over there, and Octavia will text me when they’re on they’re on their way. Probably in twenty minutes or so.”

The crowd spread out, chattering, and Monroe sidled up to the island.

“You need help with anything?”

Clarke shook her head.

“I don’t think so. I’m just waiting on the rest of the guests, oh, and if you brought a gift you can put them over there.” She nodded at the mail table in the hallway. Monroe walked over, dropping an envelope on top of it. When Clarke glanced back at the table, five minutes later, it was covered in gifts. She rolled her eyes, wondering briefly how someone so moody could be so well liked. Then she remembered his first couple weeks here, and sighed.

People continued to trickle in, Miller and Monty with about a dozen other people. They didn’t quite make it to the fifty Clarke was expecting, but they were close. Just as Jasper’s girlfriend, Harper, arrived, Clarke got the text she’d been waiting for.

“Okay, guys.” She turned the music off, and the very large crowd of people in her loft all turned to stare at her. “They’re about three minutes out.”

Everyone got in position, which just meant they stood far enough from the hallway that they wouldn’t be immediately seen when he opened the door. Clarke stood by the light switch, flicking it off and plunging them all into darkness. Somewhere in the loft, Jasper giggled.

“Now’s not really the time.” She muttered under her breath, but she was glad it was dark enough that no one could see her own grin. There was something about the energy in the room that was catching. Her heart thumped when she heard the sound of muffled voices, and footsteps, growing closer to the door. She wasn’t looking forward to this, she told herself. The excitement was just contagious. But then the door swung open, Bellamy muttering something like _I said we could just go for pizza_ , and Clarke switched the light on, prompting one of the loudest collective shouts of “SURPRISE!” that she’d ever heard.

He stumbled back, eyes almost as wide as his mouth, and Octavia grinned at him from the doorway.

“Happy birthday, big brother.” She shouted, poking him in the shoulder. As the shock wore off, Clarke could see him fighting a smile, and then eventually he just gave into it. Then his eyes fell on one of the guests.

“Sterling?”

The tall, brown haired man walked forward, dragging Bellamy into a firm hug. Clarke felt her eyebrows shoot up, having never seen him embrace a person who wasn’t his sister before. When they pulled away, Bellamy looked a little shell shocked.

“What are you doing here, man?” He asked, running a hand through his hair. Clarke got the sense it had been a while since the two men had seen each other, but it seemed to be a happy reunion.

“Monroe said you were in town and having a party.” Sterling shrugged. “How could I not come?” He beamed, and Bellamy looked over at Monroe, his eyes travelling over the familiar faces in the room, and the unfamiliar ones.

“How did you…” He frowned at the blonde. She pointed to Clarke.

“Clarke invited me. She asked if I knew any of your friends in town.” Monroe said, walking toward him and pressing a beer into his hand. “Happy Birthday, Bell.” But Bellamy’s eyes drifted toward Clarke.

“Thanks.” He said absently. Someone turned the music back on, and the earlier chattering resumed, leaving Monroe awkwardly standing next to a Bellamy who was still staring at Clarke.

“Okay.” Monroe mumbled uncomfortably. “Well…” And she walked away to talk to one of the other men who’d come with her. Bellamy made his way over to Clarke, raising the beer to his lips. She folded her arms across her chest, still pissed, but not wanting to make a scene.

“You did this?” He asked, gesturing at the party. She nodded, lips pressed together.

“Happy birthday.” She said, voice neutral.  He blinked at the lack of her usual warmth, though she couldn’t really fathom why that would take him by surprise. He was old enough to know that being the birthday boy couldn’t miraculously fix all the mistakes that he had made. He hesitated, opening his mouth, and then closing it, before responding.

“Thank you.” He said quietly. “For this.” He looked so sad in the moment that she was almost tempted to cave and forgive him. Almost.

“Well.” She shrugged. “A party of three just seemed sad. Especially when one of the three is someone you don’t like.”

She wasn’t fishing, just annoyed. He frowned.

“Is that what you think?”

“It doesn’t really matter what I think.” She sighed, the fight going out of her. “It’s your birthday, and I don’t want to ruin it.” Despite how disappointed she was that he’d suddenly shut her out.

“Clarke…” His voice was low, but she suddenly couldn’t take it anymore. She’d accepted the new, hostile Bellamy. He made it easier for her to imagine how she’d pick up her life when he was gone. She nodded at Monroe.

“I think she wants to talk to you. I doubt you’re a big mingler…” She muttered, giving him an appraising look, “but there are a lot of people here to see you, so.”

He understood that she was dismissing him.

“Yeah.” He took another swig of his beer. “You’re right.”

She watched him go, feeling forlorn and a little mean. Octavia sidled up to her, startling Clarke when she spoke.

“What’s going on with you two?”

Clarke stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

Octavia narrowed her eyes.

“You’re obviously upset about something.” She pointed out. Clarke was beginning to resent how easily people could read her.

“You know Bellamy. Your brother’s just…” She made a vague gesture. “Hard to get along with.”

Octavia snorted.

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

Clarke didn’t argue, just watched Bellamy making the rounds. After a little while, Raven challenged him to a game of beer pong. Clarke sighed, knowing what was coming.

“CLARKE!” Raven shouted, waving her over. “Come on, you’re on my team.”

It was a thing they’d done, when Clarke and Raven had both been heartbroken over Finn, messy and tragic and looking for a distraction. They’d started gatecrashing college parties, posing as students, and had drunk a fair a few frat boys under the table. They’d also gotten embarrassingly good at beer pong.

Clarke hated her. She really did. But it was Bellamy’s birthday.

So she made her way to the table, watching as Bellamy called his friend Sterling over to join them. Both men rolled up their sleeves, faces serious. Clarke didn’t find it endearing at _all_.

Twenty minutes later, Clarke and Raven watched Sterling fidget nervously with the ball. The girls had 7 cups left on their side, while the boys were down to their last. Their game had drawn a fair amount of attention, and Octavia was razzing both sides.

“This is embarrassing.” She said sweetly, and Bellamy shot her a murderous look. “Getting owned like this on your birthday, I mean.”

Clarke snorted, prompting another angry glare.

“Don’t fuck it up.” Raven told Sterling, an almost feline grin stretching across her lips. He sighed, but Clarke didn’t miss the twinkle in his eyes as he told her to go hell. And neither, apparently, did Raven’s roommate. Wick scowled from the corner, and Clarke filed that way for later analysis.

Sterling took the shot, the ball circling the cup once, before flying out. The crowd jeered.

And then it was Clarke’s turn. She wasn’t nervous, not really, but the truth was she wanted this game to be over. She wasn’t sure why Raven had made her do this, not after the conversation they’d had the day before, but she was tired of Bellamy’s questioning glances, and Octavia’s curious looks, and the way Raven seemed to be determined to get the two of them to make up.

She eyed the remaining cup on the opposing side, flicked her wrist, and watched the ball sail perfectly into it’s target. Raven hooted beside her, and Bellamy shook his head in defeat, tilting back the mixture of whiskey and cola. Their friends congratulated them for a few minutes, but eventually Clarke found an opening in which to slip away, retreating to the kitchen. She grabbed another drink, because the one downside to winning a drinking game was the consequential sobriety, and watched the party from the corner.

Bellamy wasn’t much of a mingler, but Clarke had been raised to be, so she got to know some of his old coworkers pretty well. They all had stories, things about him, and for the most part no one had a bad thing to say. Somewhere around eleven, Clarke began to suspect that maybe the way Bellamy had been acting had nothing to do with her. And that maybe she should be more concerned than he was.

“Can I ask you something?” Clarke wondered, eyeing Monroe, who had taken up residence on the couch beside her a couple minutes ago. The woman shrugged.

“Shoot.”

“When you and Bellamy were together, was he ever distant? Was he ever…mean?”

Monroe turned to look at her.

“Did he tell you about us?” She asked, looking surprised. Clarke shook her head.

“Hardly. He doesn’t tell me anything.” She felt immediately bad for saying it, thinking about the way he’d let his guard down, telling her all about his parents. “But it’s kind of obvious.”

Monroe considered that, swirling her glass of ice and Scotch.

“Distant…maybe. Sure. When we first started dating. But mean? Never.” It was her turn to look at Clarke, really look, like she was expecting to find something there. “Why? Trouble in paradise?”

It didn’t come out bitter, just…sad, maybe. After everything Clarke had seen tonight, it seemed pretty clear there were still feelings there.

“We’re not together.” She said, sighing when Monroe looked anything but convinced. “Seriously. We’re not anything. I’m not even sure we’re friends.”

Apparently, it was her turn to sound sad. Monroe picked up on that immediately.

“Clarke, what you described…it doesn’t really sound like the Bellamy I knew. But what do I know, maybe he’s changed.”

Clarke didn’t think so. She’d gotten exactly what she needed out of the conversation, but it wasn’t really what she wanted. Because now she was worried. And now she knew she’d have to take the high road.

Sometime around midnight Lincoln finally showed up.

Bellamy was deep in conversation with Sterling when Octavia pushed the shaven-headed, tattoo covered, sweetheart of a giant toward her brother.

“Bell.” She said, and Clarke watched with interest from her perch a few feet away. He looked up. “This is Lincoln. My boyfriend.”

Bellamy’s face went from polite interest, to absolute intimidation, in something like five seconds flat. It was fascinating. Lincoln held out a hand.

“Nice to meet you, man. Happy birthday.”

Bellamy eyed his hand with suspicion, but eventually took it. Even from where she was, Clarke could see the relief on Octavia’s face.

“Thanks.” Bellamy released Lincoln’s hand, then leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Octavia bounced nervously on her feet, but when Bellamy pulled away, the sober look on Lincoln’s face was almost ruined by the twitching of his lips.

The party continued, with gifts happening shortly after Bellamy got his face shoved into the cake, and all around it seemed like everyone had a good time. Even the birthday boy. Octavia stayed to help clean up, insisting that her brother enjoy one night of freedom from responsibility. Lincoln stayed too, for reasons Bellamy was obviously choosing to ignore.

So he sat on the couch as they cleaned around him, examining his loot from the night. Clarke watched in amusement as he fiddled with the compass he’d gotten from one of his old coworkers. It had belonged to a general in one of the world wars, or something.

“So.” She said, sweeping the cups on her coffee table into an open trash bag. “Get anything good?”

He looked up, apparently surprised that she was talking to him at all.

“Sure.” He said slowly, still pretty drunk from the second round of beer pong where he and Wick had teamed up against Raven and Octavia. Unsurprisingly, they’d lost. Again. “Tickets to the Roman Gods exhibit at the Art Gallery, a bunch of books. This.” He held up the compass, and she nodded. He hesitated. “I had a good time.”

Her earlier conversation with Monroe rang in her ears.

“I’m glad.” She murmured. They were both startled out of the moment when Octavia came up behind them, dragging the last of the trash.

“Okay.” The younger Blake said, surveying the loft. “I think that’s it. If you’re okay, we’re gonna head home.”

Clarke nodded, and Octavia leaned down to kiss her brother on the top of the head.

“See ya tomorrow, old man.”

He threw a balled up napkin at her retreating back.

When they were gone, Clarke dumped the last bag by the door. She’d throw them in the dumpster in the morning, she had no desire to wander around in that alley in the middle of the night.

Unable to put it off any longer, Clarke grabbed her gift for Bellamy from her bedroom, carrying it awkwardly back to where he sat on the couch.

“Happy Birthday.” She said, as he looked up from his seat. His eyes widened when he saw what she was holding.

“I didn’t have time to wrap it,” she apologized, “what with everything going on today.” That was only half true. Actually, she’d been up all night finishing the painting, and it had been drying all day. He just stared.

The painting was one Clarke had started in the summer, when she was hiking the Grouse Grind with Octavia. The view was one of the best in the city, the mountain looking down on a sprawling Vancouver, lights twinkling in the twilight down below. But Clarke had abandoned it, eventually, because she felt like something was missing. There were a million postcards with exactly the same view, and she’d wanted to do something different. And in her last minute scramble to find a birthday gift for Bellamy, it had come to her.

The painting was cut in half, diagonally, by what looked like a streak of white light, a glare from the sun. One half showed the city with it’s million lights on, the streets lined with towers of concrete and glass. The other half was the same city, the same geography, but 200 years earlier. The lights were gone, replaced with shadows, tiny log structures scattered among the forests. It was green, a million more trees still standing, the water curling in around the Quay like an embrace. They were both beautiful, in their own way, light vs shadow, glass vs pine.

When Clarke had started the painting, she’d had Octavia sketched into the corner, her face flush from the hike, staring peacefully down at the city. But Bellamy still didn’t know about Clarke’s ability, and she’d been too angry at him earlier to want to share that with him now. So she’d turned Octavia’s face, marginally, just enough that you couldn’t tell who it was. It was enough, she thought, not to give herself away.

But he wasn’t saying anything, now. Clarke wondered if maybe he was more drunk than he’d let on.

“It’s, um, by the same artist as the one you like.” She said lamely, though she had a very distinctive style, and she knew it. He stood up so suddenly she almost tumbled backwards over the table in surprise.

His hands closed around it, and she let go, watching as he studied it intently. After a few minutes he looked back up at her, his face unreadable.

“I…” He set the painting down, running his hand over his chin. “Clarke, this must have cost a fortune.”

She shifted uncomfortably.

“I know the, um, owner of the gallery. I got a really good deal. It wasn’t extravagant, I swear.” Except for the almost 12 uninterrupted hours she’d spent finishing it last night instead of sleeping. He frowned at her, obviously debating whether or not to believe her.

“Why did you do this?” He asked, and Clarke opened her mouth in surprise.

“Do you not like it?”

“Of course I like it.” He growled, eyes suddenly blazing. “I love it. It’s the best gift anyone has ever gotten me! But it’s perfect, and this party was…” He sighed. “I mean, that Murphy kid is kind of a handful, but the party was pretty perfect too. And I’ve been a fucking asshole the past two days-” She opened her mouth to argue, but he kept going. “-don’t even. I know I have. So why would you do this?”

He seemed…angry almost. And Clarke just didn’t understand it.

“Because…you’re Octavia’s brother.” She said desperately, because there was no way she was admitting the real reason. That she was pathetically invested in a guy she’d known barely three weeks.

“You do this for all your friend’s siblings?”

She had almost forgotten the eerie way he could always see right through her. She gritted her teeth.

“You’re also my roommate.”

He frowned impassively down at her, and she felt it, that emotional undressing as he broke through all the walls she’d worked so hard to put up the last few days.

“You do this for all of your roommates?” He pressed. She groaned.

“Look. Just say thank you for the painting and the party. I’m not doing this with you.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Why not?”

She felt the rage coiling in her stomach, wondering how someone she’d known for such a short time could manage to get under her skin like this.

“Bellamy.” She said quietly, seething. “You’ve made it pretty clear that we’re not friends the past few days. And yes, I threw you a party, which O started planning before you started using me as your own personal punching bag, and yes, I got you that painting because I thought you would like to have it. But I’m not doing this now. You got what you wanted, I’m going to stay out of your life.”

She took a last glance at the painting, and _god_ she felt stupid now, because he was right, what was she _thinking_ , and practically sprinted to her bedroom to get away from him.

She was too angry to sleep, really, at him and at herself, and at Finn and everyone else who had turned her into this mess of insecurity and deep suspicion and an emptiness that sometimes threatened to hollow her from the inside out. So she lay there, overthinking, until she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time on her phone: just after four in the morning.

Sighing, she climbed out of bed, compiling a list of the harshest possible insults that could be used against someone at four in the morning, and threw open the door.

But she didn’t get a change to use any of them, on account of the way Bellamy seized her face the instant the door swung open, crushing his lips to hers in a kiss that effectively drained every coherent thought from her head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, are you guys still with me? What did you think of the party?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, just a quick note, I'm switching tenses in this story. I started writing this when all the fics I did were in past tense, but I've since found it much easier to work in present tense, so the rest of the story will be written that way. Hopefully it's not too confusing. Thank you so much to everyone who left comments, they keep me motivated and loving this story. You also might have noticed that I've set the number of chapters this story will have, because I've finally gotten organized and outlined the rest of this fic. <3

To say Clarke was caught off guard is an understatement. She rocks backward on her heels when Bellamy leans into her, grabbing onto him for balance. Her hands fist in his shirt, one arm thrown around his shoulder.

She shouldn’t be doing this. She thinks it, and she knows it, and she’s _mad_ at him. But god, he tastes good, tongue swiping along her lip, and he feels good with his body pressed up against hers like this. His fingers tangle in her hair, and she can’t breathe, really, but who needs oxygen when you have this. But then he says her name, and it’s like a bucket of cold water being dumped over her head.

“What are you doing?” She gasps, jerking away, releasing her hold on his chest and staggering away. He looks wrecked, shirt still bunched where she was clinging to it. He looks like she feels.

“I…’ He opens his mouth, and her eyes are drawn to it like magnets. Now that she knows what it can do, she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to think about anything else. “I’m sorry.”

She’s spent the last two days wanting him to be sorry. But this is not the apology she’s been after. She doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing _for_. So she asks.

“Why?”

He closes his mouth, finally, although that doesn’t make it any less distracting, and shifts uncomfortably.

“For…taking it out on you.” His voice is low, rough, but not with sleep. She scrubs a hand across her face, making an exasperated noise.

“For taking _what_ out on me?”

And there it is. The last chance, the last time she’ll offer an olive branch. Clarke may be kind, but she isn’t masochistic, and she’s beginning to regret not having a stronger sense of self-preservation to begin with. She waits, arms crossed.

He’s thinking about it, she can tell, and for one horrible moment she thinks he’s just going to turn on his heel and walk out. 

“My editor’s giving me shit.” He says, and it comes out all in one breath, like he wasn’t even sure he was going to tell her until the words came tumbling out. She stays quiet, watching him. “Before I left we were talking about the possibility of me writing a period series, like those documentary ones on the History channel.”

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Writing for television? Like a screenplay?” She can’t help herself. He scratches the back of his neck.

“Sort of. But yeah, for television. It was really unlikely, because I don’t have any experience in that kind of writing, so when I came out here to work on this Collins piece I didn’t think twice about it. And this was only supposed to be a few days’ worth of research anyways.”

And yet here they are six weeks later. But she lets him continue.

“Apparently a studio exec got a hold of the pilot I’d written, and he wants to talk to me about it.”

This time, it’s Clarke’s mouth that drops open.

“You’re kidding.” She mutters. He just shrugs. “Okay, and why is that a bad thing?”

The hesitation is back, his eyes drifting through the room, refusing to land on her.

“I would have to go back. This week. She’s already set up the meetings and if I don’t go, I’m basically giving up the opportunity. They’ll find someone else.”

Clarke frowns.

“I mean…you would have had to go back eventually. You _live_ there.” She points out. “And it’s just a couple of meetings, right? So you could come back here…” She trails off as he shakes his head.

“No. You don’t get it. We would start production immediately. And that’s like 8 months worth of work, and if the show goes over well that’s another season, and-” He breaks off, looking frustrated. Clarke gets the picture.

“So you would be leaving for good, then.” She realizes, crossing her arms over her chest. That raw feeling is back, the one that Bellamy seems to elicit from her so easily. He nods, slowly, eyes on her.

“Back to visiting a couple times a year.” He says tiredly. “Never seeing Octavia, or…” his eyes flicker over her face briefly, “anyone else.”

He doesn’t mean her, she tells herself. She isn’t sure she believes it.

“Is that what you want?” She wonders. There are deep lines on his forehead that give him away, but assuming she knows him is what got her into this mess in the first place. He just stares through her.

“It’s a really good opportunity. I could afford to go back to school once everything died down.”

Clarke forgets, sometimes, the sacrifices he made to let Octavia live her life. She sighs.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

He glares at her, but she’s starting to get used to it.

“I don’t know.” He finally grinds out. “I don’t know what I want. But I have two days to make a decision and pack up and go home.”

She hears it in his voice, the pain that comes with choosing between family and your career. The guilt is too familiar, as is the panic. He wants her to tell him what to do, she can see it in his eyes. But she can’t.

“You want…to be near your sister.” She says, thinking out loud. “And I think you like it here, you complain about Toronto a lot. And I _know_ you like the freedom of working on your own schedule, being able to go off on some three day nerd bender where you do nothing but read the guestbook from a nineteenth century bed and breakfast.”

His lips twitch.

“But?” He prompts, because he knows her a little bit, too.

“But if this is your dream…”She thinks about the paintings currently sitting in a gallery a couple miles away, and the feeling of cashing a cheque that was earned through what was entirely a labor of love. “Then Octavia will understand.”

He bristles.

“It’s selfish-” He starts, and she cuts him off, exhausted by everything about him in the moment.

“Yes, it is. And that’s normal. God, Bellamy, she’s not fifteen anymore. She’s an adult, with a job, and soon she’ll be done those online classes and she’ll have a degree. She’s living her life, and I know she loves having you around, but you’re _supposed_ to do things for yourself.”

And then, suddenly, he’s kissing her again.

She sighs into his mouth, a mixture of pleasure and exasperation.

“Bellamy.” She murmurs against his lips. But that only encourages him. And maybe she sinks into it a little, but it feels like she’s been fighting this forever, so now, just for the moment, she gives in.

One of his arms winds around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She makes a noise of surprise, or maybe approval, and curls her fingers into his hair. He smells like he always does, earthy and a little spicy, and vaguely of books. When he flexes his bicep against her back she melts into him, biting down gently on his bottom lip. Growling, he just grips her hip a little harder.

Clarke feels the heat building between them, and maybe she’s spent too much time imagining what this would be like, but the real thing is like burning from the inside out in the best way. It’s ridiculous that his touch can make her feel so much more alive, like a shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins. But then his hand skims up the length of her arm and she can’t think.

She wraps her arms around his neck, and feels his fingers brush the hem of her shirt. Seconds later, he’s tugging it up, over her head. He’d knocked on her door at four in the morning, getting her out of bed, and they both seem to realize at the same time that she’s not wearing a bra. His eyes travel south, lingering on her chest, and she can almost feel the heat of his gaze as he looks at her.

“I-” She opens her mouth to speak, although there aren’t really any coherent thoughts in her head, but he crushes his mouth against hers again, so it doesn’t matter. They both stumble back toward the bed, falling onto it when the back of her knees hit it and fold. He crushes her a little when they fall, but she doesn’t care. She says his name again, because it’s the only word she can think of.

Somehow, he relieves her of her shorts, and his boxers get lost in the mix as well, and then he’s propped up above her, dark eyes shining in the moonlight. Clarke can feel his weight, though she knows he’s resting most of it on his forearms, and she reaches up to brush a stray curl away from his face.

“Octavia is going to kill me.” She says. He makes a face.

“Can we not-”

“Sorry.” She says. Because of course he doesn’t want to talk about Octavia. She tugs sharply on that same curl, the one that refuses to stay tucked behind his ear.

“You talk too much.” He tells her, which is rich, coming from him, but she just smiles.

“So shut me up already.”

.

Clarkes wakes up wondering vaguely if she fell asleep on the sun. The nape of her neck is drenched with sweat, the sheets sticking to her in every place they touch. The source of the heat, she discovers, is the well-muscled arm curled possessively around her waist. And also the matching thigh hiked over hers in some sort of subconscious attempt at either climbing over or suffocating her in her sleep. The attached torso and head, complete with an unruly mop of curly black hair, are also probably contributing to the sensation that she is being roasted like a rotisserie chicken.

Bellamy, it turns out, likes to cuddle. He is also a human furnace.

“Jesus _Christ_.” She exhales, throwing off what’s left of the sheets draping over her legs and noting the pleasant soreness in her muscles. Beside her, Bellamy stirs.

“What are you doing?” He wonders, lips moving against her shoulder blade. He’s hard, and they’re both naked, but the thought of doing anything as strenuous as sex when she’s already overheating has her shoving him away in annoyance.

“You’re hot.” She complains. He uses the hand still hooked around her waist to close the distance she’s put between them.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He says, sounding more awake. She lets out a long-suffering sigh, and crawls across the bed, away from him. It’s not that she’s not up for round two, actually, round 4 if she’s remembering the events of the former night correctly, but she’s too hot to be bothered. Or too warm to be hot. Or something like that.

When she pushes herself up and out of the bed, he sits up.

His eyes are on her, dark and suddenly alert. She can see the question in them, the caution that flickered the moment she left the mattress.

“No.” She mutters, pushing a couple sweat-soaked strands of hair out of her face. “I mean you’re radiating heat. It’s excessive.”

His eyebrows go up as he takes in the light sheen all over her body, and for the first time, she realizes she’s standing in front of him, in broad daylight, completely naked. If she were a shy person, Clarke might reach for the robe hanging off the back of the door. She doesn’t.

“Ah.” He says, with the air of a man who has heard that particular complaint before.

“I’m dehydrated.” She announces. “And I think a shower might be urgently necessary.”

That wall goes back up behind his eyes, so she leans down, setting one knee back on the bed, and kisses him gently. When she pulls away, the wall has faded into softness.

He doesn’t follow her into the shower, although she wouldn’t have been opposed to that, but she suspects he’s giving her space. When she emerges, clad only in a towel, she finds him sitting at the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal.

“Bellamy.” She says, because he’s naked on her barstool.

“There’s coffee-” He begins to tell her, then he looks up and sees her, wet hair and towel and all, and seems to lose his train of thought. She’s cooled down a bit, partially due to the cold shower she just took, and the way his eyes darken as they trail across her chest and down her legs has her chewing on her lip.

“Coffee sounds good.” She manages, walking over to the cupboard and pouring herself a glass. They probably drink too much coffee. They’ve gone through a couple pounds of it in the short time he’s been here. And that’s not even including the lattes he brings home whenever he meets Finn for work in the morning. She suspects the lattes are the product of guilt, an “I’m-sorry-I-keep-hanging-out-with-your-adulterous-ex-fiancé” peace offering. But she isn’t complaining. When she turns back around, he’s caging her against the counter, an arm on either side of her.

“Good morning.” He says. She licks her lips, setting the mug down beside her.

“Good morning.” She replies.

The coffee gets cold.

.

By the next day, Clarke and Bellamy are both actively avoiding the fact that they’re actively avoiding the decision he needs to make. And the conversation that goes with it. And anything, in fact, remotely to do with the reality of their situation. Which is that he’s leaving tomorrow, or he’s not.

So they stay in bed, and they order Chinese food when they can’t be bothered to get dressed long enough to go out, and Bellamy makes a comment about Clarke not having the nerve to answer the door in her underwear. Which, naturally, she then does.

She digs into a carton of vegetarian chow fun, and looks up from the spread of white cardboard and noodles that they’ve arranged on the living room floor.

“Bellamy.” She says. She’s noticed that she says his name differently now, and she hates that. Because this is temporary, all of it.

He simply raises an eyebrow in response, shoving another dumpling into his mouth.

“If you’re going,” She begins slowly, and she only says _if_ so it doesn’t sound like she’s pushing him out the door. But he’s going. He has to. She knows this. “-then you need to pack.”

He stops chewing and stares at her.

“Do you want me to go?” He asks, sounding surprised. That isn’t fair, and he knows it.

“I want you to do what you want.” She says, and it’s a cop out, but she hopes he’ll allow it. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He’s Bellamy, after all.

“Ask me to stay.” He says suddenly. Clarke chokes on her food.

“I can’t-you know I can’t do that.” She didn’t mean for it come out quite so panicked. His face, which has been more peaceful today than she’s ever seen it, turns guarded. She can feel it all coming undone, everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours. _No_ , she thinks. But maybe it’s for the best.

“Right.” He nods his head sharply. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

Of course she wants him to stay. But she can’t ask him to give up everything he’s worked for so they can play house a little longer. They’ve known each other for barely a month. Clarke might consider herself a romantic, she is an artist after all, but she’s also a pragmatist. And she cares for Bellamy too much to let him make that sacrifice. Or maybe she’s just doing what she always has since Finn, protecting herself.

She wants to fix it, the quiet that settles in between them as they eat, loaded in a way it wasn’t before. But maybe it will be easier this way, when he leaves. So she embraces it, the tension.

They finish dinner, and clean up, and he still hasn’t said a word.

“Do you want help?” She asks, when he turns for his room. They’re both still mostly naked, and for the first time that day, she feels tiny and exposed. He stares at her for a moment, and she holds her breath.

Eventually he shrugs, and she follows him, and they start to sort his things. He’d arrived with one small suitcase, but his roommate back in Toronto had sent him clothes and books when it became apparent he’d be staying longer than a weekend. He grumbles about it a little, as things begin to spill out of the suitcase.

“How did I accumulate so much _crap_?” He wonders, tossing clothes onto the bed and raising an eyebrow when he unearths a black thong from under his pillow. Clarke holds her hand out for it.

“Maybe you’re a hoarder.” She suggests, unhelpfully. He glares, and things start to feel a little more like before. It takes a few hours to decide what he can take back on the plane (“THE PLANE!” he shouts, upon being reminded that he actually has to buy a ticket for a flight leaving in less than 14 hours), and what Clarke will have to ship to him once he’s home. And soon everything is packed away, in bags or boxes, and they’re looking at a room Clarke barely recognizes without the piles of books and moleskins stacked in every corner. A wave of loneliness washes over her, and he’s not even gone yet.

As though he can read her mind, Bellamy slips an arm around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head. And they shouldn’t, but she leads him back to her room, and they fall into the bed together. They just lay there, his hand on her hip, staring at the ceiling.

“I promised Octavia I wouldn’t sleep with you.” She says, after a while. He snorts. “What?” She asks, rolling over to frown at him.

“Yeah, she made me promise that, too.” He admits, without a trace of remorse. Clarke sighs.

“Well.” She mumbles. And there’s really nothing else to say.

.

Bellamy’s flight is at noon. He spends the morning with Octavia, explaining himself and saying goodbye. Clarke insists on driving him to the airport, because it’s last minute and Octavia is working, he has too much luggage to take the new Canada Line train, and besides, YVR is only a forty minute drive from her place. And maybe she also wants to see him off. So sue her. She parks in the domestic departures lot, even though Bellamy insists she could just drop him off. She’s not sure why she’s making this so hard on herself, except maybe that she is a masochist after all.

And that’s how they end up at security, Bellamy holding what’s left of his luggage hesitantly.

“I’ll call you.” He says. “When I land.”

What she wants to say, is _this sucks._ What comes out is-

“Have a safe flight.”

She almost doesn’t kiss him goodbye, but, masochism, so she pulls him into a long enough kiss that he sets his bag down and wraps his arms firmly around her. When he lets go, she doesn’t feel like crying, like the other couples saying their farewells in the terminal. She just feels empty.

“I-” He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. His thumb traces the line of her cheekbone.

“Go get famous.” She tells him, only half forcing a smile. His answering one is genuine, but heavy. Clarke watches him wheel away his suitcase with something that feels like heartburn. Once he’s through security, she heads back to her car.

It’s quiet on the way back, without him rambling on about the Romans, or the Mesopotamians, or how much it rains here. She suddenly misses him so acutely she almost pulls over to the side of the road. But she pulls it together. _It was only a few weeks_ , she tells herself. _It’s time to get back to real life_.

So she does. And it goes alright, until it doesn’t.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken so long, I got crazy stuck on this last chapter. I know where I want the story to go, I just couldn't quite get it there. I'll try to update more frequently.

“What are the odds that I could convince you to stay?”

Clarke rolls over, propping her head up on her elbow to stare at the very naked Bellamy in front of her.

“What, here? In Toronto?”

He nods.

“Hmmm.” She watches him watch her, his eyes dark and slightly hooded. “Tempting. But I hate the smog.”

He reaches out to trace a line between her shoulder blades.

“This long distance thing is getting old,” he grumbles.

“It’s only been a month,” she replies with a sigh. “And we already made a pact not to go longer than two weeks without seeing each other. It sucks but-”

“We don’t really have any other options,” he finishes with a sigh. “Yeah I know.”

“Unless you want to stop seeing each other,” Clarke suggests. It’s not what she wants, and she suspects it’s not what he wants either, but if he’s already unhappy after barely a month then there isn’t a lot of hope for the next year or longer. His half lidded eyes sharpen, suddenly intense. They’d tried at first, not talking, letting whatever they had fizzle out with distance, but it didn’t work. Eventually, every time they tried, one of them caved.

“Is that what you want?” he asks slowly.

“Of course not. But who knows how long you’ll be here filming? And I can’t move, I have friends and business in Vancouver. I don’t like it either, but if the long distance thing isn’t working, I’d rather know now.”

With a deep groan, he pulls her into his chest.

“Not seeing you at all would not be better,” he mumbles into her hair. Then something seems to occur to him and his grip on her tightens. “I could just keep you here by force,” he says brightly. Clarke snorts.

“You could try. I wouldn’t suggest it.” Before he even has a chance to blink, she’s on top of him, pinning him by his wrists to the bed. He blinks, a filthy grin spreading across his face.

“Oh?” He lets his eyes roam over her, slow and shameless. Parts of her that were totally sated a few minutes ago begin to throb again. “And why not?”

They don’t get a lot of talking done after that.

.-.-.-.-.

“Thanks for picking me up again,” Clarke says through a mouthful of muffin, climbing into the passenger seat of her car. Octavia rolls her eyes behind the aviators perched on her nose.

“You’ll be making it up to me eventually,” she mutters, and Clarke knows that’s not an empty promise. Still, her post-Bellamy glow has yet to wear off, so for the moment she just smiles good naturedly at her friend and watches the airport slowly shrink behind them.

“Your brother says hi, by the way,” Clarke tells her.

“Yeah, right,” Octavia says, glancing over at her “I have a feeling you two don’t exactly spend a lot of time talking about me on these little weekend vacations.” Clarke frowns.

“Are you kidding? Half the time he just grills me about your life, about Lincoln. He really misses you.” And that’s enough to elicit a sad sigh from the brunette, her flippancy finally disappearing.

“It was nice having him around,” she admits. “One of those things where you don’t really realize how much you missed someone until they’re gone again.”

Clarke knows about that. It’s been six months now, that her and Bellamy have been scraping together whatever long distance, stolen moments they can, and every time she gets to stand in the same room as him it’s like finally coming up for air. They instated a rule early on that they couldn’t go longer than two weeks without seeing each other, so they alternate flying back and forth, more often in Toronto than Vancouver because of his schedule, but it’s working. Every time she questions that, she remembers that the alternative is not to see him at all. So, if anyone were to ask, it’s working.

And then, just like clockwork, her phone rings. Glancing at the name flashing on her screen, Clarke sighs.

“Your brother’s a little overprotective, you know that?”

Octavia just makes a bemused noise.

“We’re not even home yet,” Clarke mutters, the phone now pressed against her cheek.

“I thought you were going to call me when you landed.” Hearing his voice just makes the reality that she’s home, and he’s not, sink in a little faster.

“No, I said when I got home.”

“Oh my god!” The younger Blake suddenly shouts from the driver’s seat. “You two have this argument _every_ time I pick you up. Next time just call him when you land, he’s not going to let this go.”

Clarke blinks sheepishly at the girl as Bellamy laughs on the other end.

“Goodbye, Bellamy,” she says, holding the phone directly in front of her mouth. “I will call you _when I get home_.”

It’s working.

.-.-.-.-.-.

This is the longest they’ve gone since Bellamy moved back to Toronto.

Twenty-nine days. But Raven needs her here, and when Finn was shot, Clarke knew exactly where she needed to be. His coma, which lasted for three weeks, had been hard on the mechanic. It’s not that Clarke isn’t affected, she is, but the other two shared a history that ran much deeper, and messier, than a broken engagement. And then, a few days ago, he was just gone. Clarke had made him write out the living will when they were together, and Finn had specified that he didn’t want to be on life support longer than twenty-one days. So they’d pulled the plug.

Bellamy had tried to come out three times since the shooting, but they were in the middle of shooting the finale, the most important episode of the season, as well as negotiating contracts for the next run.

Besides, Clarke is fine.

A knock comes from the front door, and she looks up from the photos in front of her, ones from a relationship that feels like a lifetime ago. Finn’s mother asked her for anything that could be added to the slideshow, and for the first time, Clarke was glad she hadn’t burned everything like she’d once wanted to. Leaving the stack of pictures on her coffee table, she pads to the front door, and when she pulls it open, she tenses.

“Bellamy?”

He looks terrible, dark circles tugging underneath his eyes, the usually rich tone of his skin washed out.

“Hey,” he says, and he even sounds exhausted. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” When he moves toward her, she takes an involuntary step back.

She wonders, for a moment, why she’s not happy to see him. And then her mouth opens, and the words come out, and it’s not such a mystery anymore.

“Where the hell have you _been_?” She hisses, and his eyebrows go up, barely. He looks less surprised at her outburst than she feels. “I needed you, and I know you have work, but it’s just a _job,_ Bellamy-”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and she doesn’t move away when he wraps his arms around her this time, melting into that smell that she knows so well, old books and cedar. Her hands fist in his shirt, trembling, and then all of her is shaking, sobs wracking her body so hard she can barely stand. “I’m sorry.”

After a few minutes of this, Bellamy drops his arms, but instead of backing away, he picks her up, carrying her into her bedroom. He sets her on the bed, and she grabs his hand, holding fast.

“Wait, don’t-”

“I’m just going to get my bag and close the door,” he promises, and though he disappears, he keeps his word and is back before a minute passes. Then he crawls onto the bed beside her, pulling her into him. She hasn’t really slept since she got the phone call, there’s been a lot to do, and up until this morning Raven couldn’t really be left by herself. But here, Bellamy’s strong arms enveloping her, that intense warmth he always gives off seeping through her, Clarke finds her eyes beginning to close.

“I’m tired,” she mumbles eventually. His thumb strokes across her shoulder.

“Get some sleep,” he tells her. “I’ll be here when you wake up. I’m not going anywhere.”

And although something in the back of her mind doesn’t quite believe him, she lets the noise around her fade into nothing, and falls asleep to the steady rhythm of his heart against her cheek.

.-..-.-.

Her eyes feel heavy. They drag when she tugs them open, and as they adjust to the light, she realizes she’s staring into a familiar chest.

“Bell?” She asks, voice hoarse. The weight of everything, her eyelids, her limbs, her head, it reminds her of the times she used to stay up for days cramming for finals, and the rough morning that always comes after sleeping for twenty-four hours straight. Then she remembers why Bellamy’s here, and why she’s had so much trouble sleeping.

“Hey.” His voice is rough, as though he’s been sleeping too. For the first time, she notices the lack of sunlight leaking under her curtains. It must be fully dark out.

“What time is it?”

The bed moves a little as he shifts to grab his phone from the night stand.

“Just after two.”

“AM?” Clarke sits bolt upright, then immediately regrets it, head spinning.

“Mmm,” he grunts, struggling to sit up himself. “Yeah. Guess we both really needed a nap.”

She groans, sitting back against the headboard groggily.

“I don’t think sleeping for twelve hours straight counts as a nap.”

It had been around one when he showed up on her doorstep, and she’s been out like a light since then. Bellamy just sighs. His eyes are drifting shut again, and Clarke stares at him for a moment, taking in all the subtle changes since the last time she saw him. His hair is longer, combined with the beginnings of a beard that makes her wonder why he’s stopped taking care of himself.

“What’s going on?” She finally asks, before he has a chance to fall back to sleep. One of his eyes opens, looking at her curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you look like the one whose ex-fiancé just died?”

His face instantly darkens, both eyes open now, and unreadable.

“Clarke-”

“Bellamy, don’t lie to me.”

He regards her for a moment, undecided.

“They picked up the show for another season.”

Her eyebrows go up. Maybe she shouldn’t be surprised, she knows Bellamy’s talent, and his penchant for details when it comes to anything historical, but she is.

“Isn’t it kind of soon for that? The pilot _just_ aired, you haven’t even finished shooting the first season yet.” Although the pilot did get glowing reviews, and having watched it with Octavia, Clarke can only agree that it was very well done. He shrugs.

“It’s not unheard of.”  

“Wow.” Ignoring the way her mouth has suddenly gone dry, she leans in to press a kiss lightly against his lips. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

She’s proud of him, she realizes with some relief. Even through her own disappointment.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

Clarke could let that go. She could shrug and say it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter, that she understands the demands of his job.

But,

“Me too,” is all she can really think to say. It’s been twenty-six days of being the only thing holding Raven up, and it wasn’t really until now that Clarke realized exactly how much she needed someone of her own to lean on. The others have been there the best they know how, hovering awkwardly, texting their condolences. Octavia has alternated Raven duty with her, but she didn’t know Finn the way the other two women did, so she can’t really relate.

“I should have been here. I just-” he breaks off suddenly, like the next few words simply won’t come out. “It doesn’t matter. I should have gotten away.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Clarke decides that for now, just for now, she’ll forgive him.

“The funeral is tomorrow. Or, today, I guess.”

“I know.”

“I have to go, Raven will need me there.”

“I know. I can go too, if you want.” His ties to Finn are loose, at best, but these days so are Clarke’s. She nods, dropping her head onto his shoulder. “Okay. You hungry?” She just nods again. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he climbs out of bed, and she watches him disappear down the hallway, into the kitchen. Part of her wants to go back to sleep, but the familiar sound of Bellamy cooking draws her out into the house, sitting in one of the bar stools at her peninsula.

“I guess I’m going to have to get used to take out again,” she mumbles through a yawn. Bellamy looks up from the omelettes he’s whisking to frown at her. “Considering you’ll be staying on the East Coast.”

“Oh,” his frown deepens in understanding, though his gaze turns back to the bowl. “You know I haven’t accepted yet, right?”

Her eyebrows go up.

“How would I know that?”

“I guess I just thought you’d know I wouldn’t take it without talking to you first,” he says slowly. But it hadn’t even occurred to Clarke that he would turn it down. “I mean, it affects both of us.”

“Bellamy-”

“But I guess I haven’t really given you a lot of reasons to believe that, recently.” He holds out a piece of mushroom, and she takes it, popping it into her mouth thoughtfully.

“Alright,” she acknowledges that, the buried apology, one she’s starting to realize she’ll be hearing a lot. “So, let’s talk. I think you should take it.”

His hand, busy whisking, stills.

“You do.”

“Look, the whole reason you took this job was because it would be good for your career, it would let you make enough money to go back to school. And if you want to turn it down so you can go back to school, fine. But I don’t want you to quit just because of me.”

Bellamy dumps the egg mixture into a pan on the stove, then turns his gaze on Clarke, still moody, still unreadable.

“So, basically, nothing has changed?”

It’s her turn to frown.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this is exactly what happened the last time we had this conversation. I’m offering to stay here, so we can actually be together, and you’re telling me to go.”

“I’m not _telling_ you to go, I’m just-”

“I _miss_ you, Clarke. When we’re not together I’m fucking miserable. This whole long distance thing was never the plan, we just fell into it. Are you actually happy flying out every two weeks, never having anyone to come home to? I could have been here, for this. And I wasn’t.”

His eyes are boring holes into her forehead, she can feel it. But her own gaze is trained on the counter, trying to convince herself that he’s wrong. That it’s not that bad. She’s been surviving on her own since her father died. And as much as she loves her friends, Octavia, Raven, as much as she feels like a bigger, brighter person when she’s with Bellamy, Clarke doesn’t expect people to be there for her anymore. Or, she thought she didn’t, until he showed up on her doorstep and that long forgotten feeling of disappointment had come rushing back as though it never left. And she’s had enough disappointment to last her a lifetime. She doesn’t need to set herself up for more.

“Okay, so you feel guilty, that doesn’t mean you should give up your job and move back across the country.”

The smell of chives and cheese begins to waft throughout the kitchen, and Bellamy gives the omelette a flip before rubbing his chin angrily.

“Seriously? You think this is about me feeling guilty? Jesus, Clarke, I just want to be near you, is that so hard to believe?” His jaw is set, voice raised and a little growly in the way it always is when she hurts him, accidentally or not.

“I don’t want you to give up an amazing opportunity just to be near me! I can’t ask you to do that! I don’t need that kind of pressure!”

“Pressure?” His voice is even now, deadly quiet. Suddenly, she wishes he was still yelling. “Right.” He turns to shut off the burner, then drops the pan on a hot pad on the island. “Here’s your food, I’m going to stay at O’s.”

“Bellamy-”

“No, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to put any pressure on you.”

She hops off the stool, following him to the bedroom, where he picks up his bag.

“That’s not what I meant.” And now that he’s finally here, she doesn’t want him to go. But when he comes back out, she can see it all over his face. This fight isn’t like the others, the dozens of small arguments stemming from the frustration of two thousand miles. This time, her punches landed.

“Bullshit.” Bellamy pushes past her.

“It’s two in the morning, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll get a cab.” When she puts her hand on his shoulder, he shakes it off. “Don’t.”

And then he’s gone, and every ounce of comfort that he brought earlier slowly drains away.

.-.-.-.-.-.

The next morning comes quickly, and brutally. Clarke’s eyes drag open at the sound of the alarm, and land on the black dress hanging on the back of her closet door. It suits her mood.

The scorching shower doesn’t do much to push away the cold that’s beginning to creep through her, a kind of icy numbness that she assumes will linger until long after the service has finished. An overwhelming urge to crawl back into bed, to pull the covers over her head, suddenly grabs her. And she knows if it weren’t for Raven, she would. She doesn’t owe Finn this. She doesn’t owe him anything.

She grabs coffee on the way, because she’s exhausted, and she thinks her friend might just want something to hold. When the passenger door opens, Clarke looks up.

“I got coffee,” she gestures at it. Raven slides in, buckling her seatbelt. She glances at the coffee, but shakes her head.

“I’m already edgy enough.” There are dark circles under her eyes, and Clarke figures she didn’t get much sleep either.

“You sure you’re up for this?”

The brunette just nods, so Clarke pulls back onto the street, sighing when the first few drops of rain hit her windshield. Perfect.

“You must think I’m pathetic.”

Clarke glances over at the other woman, eyebrows drawing together when she sees tears welling in her dark brown eyes.

“What? Why?”

“All this, I don’t know, time and energy grieving someone who treated me like shit. Treated _us_ like shit. Going to his funeral.”

“I’m going to his funeral, too,” Clarke reminds her, glancing in the rear view mirror.

“Yeah,” Raven mutters, “because I need you.”

Clarke sighs, squinting to see through the now torrential downpour beating against her window.

“That’s not pathetic, Raven.” She turns onto the long driveway that winds up to the cemetery. When the flashbacks to the last time she was in a place like this start, her grip on the steering wheel tightens. “You’re human. That’s just the cost, I guess.”

“What is?”

They’re close now, Clarke can see the cluster of cars parked at the side of the road, the vast black tent set up to keep everything dry. She thinks about the kind of pain that seems to seep out of the ground in places like this, at times like this.

“Grief.”  

.-.-.-.-.

They make their way to the back, because neither of them want to be at the front, to answer questions, and talk to people who would inevitably reminisce about what a _good boy_ Finn always was. Clarke’s left hand closes around Raven’s when the minister starts to speak, and she almost jumps out of her skin when someone takes hold of her right hand as well. She looks up, eyes widening at the slightly wet, exhausted mess of freckles and dark hair in front of her.

“Bellamy?” Her voice is low, quiet enough not to disrupt the service. “What are you doing here?”

“You needed me,” he replies with a shrug.

God, does she. Every second of this is reminding her of her father’s funeral, of the finality that comes with putting someone in the ground. And maybe there was no love lost between her and Finn in the end, but she had loved him once, not so long ago. He had ruined what they had, broke her heart. But before that he’d just been a charming boy with an infectious smile. He’d taught her to be free.

Closing her eyes against the burning pressure, Clarke wonders if need is enough to close a distance that’s beginning to seem insurmountably vast. Or maybe, if the fact that she needs him, is the very thing that will make them impossible.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so when reading this just remember that I'm on your side! This is a Bellarke story, and it will have a happy ending. There are just a few bumps in the road before we get there. This chapter is a little shorter, but I think short chapters might be more manageable and equate to more frequent updates, so hopefully that's alright. Thank you all for the feedback, please keep leaving reviews, they make the hours I've put into this story worth it!

_Six Months Later_

“No, it’s not-Bellamy I can’t do this anymore.”

He stares at her. There it is.

“You mean you don’t want to.”

“Of course I don’t want to!” Her voice is ragged, hands flying everywhere as she speaks, manic and angry and wired. “It’s not supposed to be this hard.”

“I offered,” he starts angrily, “I offered to move back, to not renew my contract, and you wanted me to take it.”

They’ve had this argument before, but this time it’s different. This time it started with a tabloid headline and picture of Bellamy with his arm around some redhead. And it’s not that Clarke doesn’t trust him. It’s not.

It’s just that all the pitying glances she gets from the people she inevitably has to defend him from are totally warranted. They don’t believe that Bellamy wouldn’t cheat on her, don’t believe that any relationship could really last a year of long distance, not with the schedule he keeps. Not with the company he keeps while he’s on set. Because what they have, it doesn’t make sense anymore.

“I know! I know. And we tried. But it’s not working. I’m miserable, you’re miserable. Don’t you miss being happy?”

She does. She almost forgets what it’s like not to be missing him constantly. And she misses him much more than she’s with him. That balance was lost a long time ago.

“ _You_ make me happy, Clarke.” And then he’s right there, hand on her jaw, holding her in place. She doesn’t want to see the pain in his eyes, not when she’s causing it.

“No I don’t,” she says softly. “Not like this.”

.-.-.-.-.

“So, how’s it going?”

Bellamy glances over at Eddie, narrowing his eyes when he sees the man’s feet up on his coffee table. He really hates that.

“Fine.” He shrugs. Eddie just snorts, taking a long pull from his beer.

“Bullshit, man. It’s been like three months, and you’re still moping. You’ve got to get over this.”

The blonde eyes Clarke’s painting, still hanging above the mantel. Bellamy’s considered taking it down a few times, but it’s the nicest piece he has. Besides, he likes it.

“I’m not moping.”

“Moping, wallowing, whatever you want to call it. It’s not healthy, dude. I’m sorry you lost your girl, but there are other fish, you know?”

No, he doesn’t know. He’s also suddenly wondering how the hell he ended up friends with someone who still says things like _dude_ and _other fish_.

“I just keep thinking that I shouldn’t have renewed my contract. I fucking _knew_ it would be too hard, and I did it anyways.” He finishes his own beer, and tries to remember how many he’s had. He can’t.

“I thought she told you to sign on? From what you’ve told me, she wouldn’t have been happy if you’d quit. Probably would have dumped you anyways. You can’t make decisions for her, man. That’s just not how relationships work.”

Right. That’s why they’re friends. The brutally honest, and sometimes crude moments of revelation. It’s refreshing, if a little annoying.

“What would you know about relationships? Seriously, what’s the longest you’ve stayed with one woman?”

Eddie just shrugs.

“I dunno, like a month? I like my freedom, what can I say.”

“You’re an idiot.” Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“I’m an idiot? You’re the one with a broke heart, and here I am, happy and whole.”

Eddie squawks as a peanut his him in the ear, then turns to glare at the assailant.

“You’re an ass.”

“Hmm.” The musician just makes a noise of agreement. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, where did you get this?” He nods at the painting.

“Uh, Clarke gave it to me. Birthday present.” Even talking about it hurts. Eddie gets up, walking over to inspect it.

“Wow, that’s a pretty sick present.” He squints at the signature in the bottom left corner. “You know, this kind of reminds me of something my brother got in a gallery in Vancouver.”

Shrugging again, Bellamy wanders over to stand beside him.

“Could be the same artist. I never actually asked who it was by.”

Eddie glances at him curiously.

“Clarke, she’s rich?”

“Uhh,” Bellamy scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Her parents were, I think. Her dad left her some money when he died. Why?”

 “Well, I mean I could be wrong, but this,” he points at the signature on the painting, “looks the same as the one on the piece my brother paid twenty-five g’s for. Although I like this one better. It suits you.”

 “It’s gotta be a different artist, then.” There’s no way Clarke would have dropped that kind of money on him. She’d have to know he wouldn’t allow it.

Eddie doesn’t look convinced, but he obviously recognizes the look on Bellamy’s face, and lets it drop.

“I should probably get going, I’m meeting some people at Everleigh. You’re welcome to come, by the way.”

He just shakes his head, watching as his friend departs.

He has a call to make.

.-.-.-.-.

Clarke is not having a good night. It’s already ten, and the piece she’s been working on, the one she told Anya she’d have done by tomorrow, hasn’t been touched in hours.

So when her phone rings, it’s a welcome distraction.

That is, until she sees who’s calling.

“Bellamy?”

“Hey.”

“Is everything okay?” They haven’t spoken since the break-up, having both agreed it would be too easy to fall back into whatever they’d been doing before. It would be better just to cut all contact.

“Um,” He sounds weird. Drunk, she realizes. It must be after one in the morning for him. “I’m not sure.”

“What’s wrong?” Hear heart leaps into her throat, images of something terrible having happened, him calling her as he bleeds out in the street.

But then, why would he call her? That’s not her business, not anymore.

“I need to ask you something.”

Clarke stands, setting down the paintbrush she’s been holding for an hour, still clean.

“Alright.”

“The painting you got me for my birthday, how much did it cost?”

Surprised at the question, she pauses.

“Uh, I told you I got a deal on it. Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know. How much did it cost?”

She bites her lip. There’s not really any reason to lie to him, not anymore. This has gone on long enough.

“I don’t really remember. Whatever I paid for the canvas and the paint, I guess.”

There’s a long silence.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s mine, Bell. I painted it.”

“You…”

“It’s how I’ve been paying for everything. Since I quit the surgical internship.”

“So the one O has, the one you’ve got-”

“Both mine.”

“And you were doing this the whole time we were together?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. It never felt this much like a lie, before.

“Yeah.”

The quiet between them says more than any words could. She fucked up. She can feel that. And there’s no taking it back.

“And the painting my friend has, the one he paid twenty-five thousand dollars for, you’re saying-”

“Could be mine.” She doesn’t mention the fact that it would have been one of her earlier pieces at that price. He laughs suddenly, bitter, and venomous.

“I’ve lost my goddamn mind.”

She winces.

“I should have told you.”

“Why didn’t you?” He still sounds angry, maybe a little less so. She can hear distant sirens in the background of his call, wonder if he’s at home.

“I don’t know. Bellamy-”

But he’s already gone.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“-to paint though, Raven said?”

Clarke blinks, realizing the man sitting across from her just asked a question. She mentally rewinds a few seconds.

“Uh, yeah. I like to paint.” She forces a smile, trying to sound enthusiastic. “What about you? You work with Raven at the garage?”

“Temporarily,” he nods, and Clarke struggles to remember his name. Cody, or maybe Kyle? “just while I finish grad school.”

“Oh.” Right, he’s already told her what he’s taking. Not that she can remember that either. “You must be looking forward to that. Grad school can be a bitch.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t realize artists went to grad school.”

She almost chokes on her drink at the condescension in his voice. Where had that come from?

“Uh, some do. But I was actually referring to med school.” If she gets a little satisfaction at seeing his eyes go wide at that, she won’t admit to it later.

“You went to medical school?”

“Mhmm,” she says over the rim of her wine glass.

“What, uh, what happened with that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how come you didn’t pursue it?”

She shrugs.

“Turns out it wasn’t my passion. Kind of an expensive mistake, but what can you do?”

“I guess you can afford it.”

“Um,” This conversation has taken a turn for the uncomfortable. “I guess.” Clarke slides her free hand into her purse, firing off a text. A minute or two later, her phone rings. “Sorry,” she fakes an apologetic smile. “I should get that.”

“Need an out?” Octavia’s voice comes across the line. Excusing herself from the table, Clarke wanders toward the bar.

“God, yes. This guy is so not my type.”

“I didn’t realize you had a type,” her friend replies, sounding surprised. Now that she thinks about it, neither did Clarke. Intense, dark eyes and freckles come to mind, but those are dangerous thoughts, so she pushes them away.

“Alright. You busy tonight? I could use a bottle of wine and an hour to complain about this date.”

Octavia laughs.

“Sure. Lincoln’s still in Phoenix, so I guess we’ll have a girl’s night.”

The pair had moved in together almost six months ago. Clarke always tries not to let it remind her of what she could have had with Bellamy, but sometimes she can’t help it. If she’d let him stay-

He would have resented her for it, eventually. She has to keep telling herself that. Otherwise all this pain, all those months of trying, desperately, to hold everything together, they were wasted. And worse, the fact that she let him go for good would have been the biggest mistake of her life.

“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can get out of here.”

She hangs up, walking back to their table with an apologetic smile.

“Let me guess,” Kyle, or Cody, says, a bemused smile on his lips. “You’ve got to go.”

“I’m sorry.” She’s not. “Let me cover this, since it’s my fault we didn’t get to finish.”

“Sure.” He sits back in his chair, eyeing her. Maybe if it were anyone else, Clarke would have expected him to argue with her. But somehow, this seems about right. She throws a few bills on the table, enough to cover their drinks and a tip. They never got a chance to order dinner.

“Have a good night.”

He just nods, a half smile, half sneer, and Clarke can’t get away fast enough, practically jogging toward the door.

Later, she sits on Octavia’s couch, happily drunk, head dangling upside down as she struggles to make sense of the ET report playing on the television.

“God this is just-” She struggles to get the words out, the gravity on her upside down head seemingly unbearable. It doesn’t occur to her to simply sit up. “Trash, O. Who even watches this?”

From the other end, and right side up, Octavia snorts.

“It’s like two a.m. What else is on? You wanna watch porn?”

“Porn would be better than this,” Clarke decides, slithering down onto the floor. The picture is still upside down from this angle, but now that she’s laying flat her head doesn’t hurt so much.

After the title sequence, Clarke starts to fall asleep. Then she hears something that wakes her up.

“What?” She blinks at Octavia, who simply blinks back, sleepy and confused.

“What?”

“Did you just say Bellamy’s name?”

The brunette shakes her head.

“I could have sworn-” and then she catches sight of the tv screen, reflected on the glass wall clock. Bellamy’s face. Clarke log rolls until she’s on her stomach, facing the tv. Candice Cameron stands in front of a green screen, a picture of Bellamy with his arm around some blonde superimposed behind her.

“-Kaitlyn Herald, star of the new hit period drama _Earthbound_ , was seen cozying up to a sexy brunette at the VELD Music Festival last night. Sources have identified the man as a writer for the show, Bellamy Blake. Neither had any comment when questioned on the matter, but they certainly looked hot and heavy at the concert.”

Clarke stares.

“Wh-” she begins, but then realizes she doesn’t even know where to start. She rolls onto her side, gaping at Octavia. “Am I totally wasted, or was your brother _actually_ just on Entertainment Tonight?” She viciously hopes it’s the former.

“Clarke,” Octavia says carefully, “-like you said, it’s trash. Bell would have told me if he was dating someone.”

The picture on the screen changes, and suddenly it’s Bellamy and the blonde, but in this one their faces are practically welded together. Clarke’s head begins to spin, and she sits up, nauseous.

“Right,” she says “I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Clarke-”

She pushes herself up, staggering toward Octavia’s bedroom. When her friend comes in, ten minutes later, she doesn’t say anything. They both just lay there, in the dark, thinking about the same thing.

 Just as sleep creeps in, softening the shock and displeasure that have taken root in Clarke’s mind, it occurs to her that Bellamy isn’t the only one trying to move on. He’s just apparently doing a better job.


	13. Author's Note

There will be a new chapter soon, it's already mostly done, but this is just a quick note in response to some comments you all have left recently.

Okay, a few quick notes:

A LOT of people have been asking why Clarke doesn't just move to Toronto to be with Bellamy, and I wanted to address that. Clarke doesn't want to live in Toronto. All her friends are in Vancouver, she really likes living there. I know she could technically paint anywhere, but she has a good relationship with a gallery in Vancouver, and as a relatively new artist, she knows that's important as well. The timing for them was awkward because they had just started dating and it was already long distance, so it would have been really soon for Clarke to have to give up her whole life to move for his work. And since she wasn't willing to do that, she didn't think Bellamy should have to do that either. And that just kind of set the precedent for her not wanting either of them to make that sacrifice later on in the relationship either. Remember, she has abandonment/trust issues.

Also, I know this has been super angsty, and I'm really sorry if that wasn't what you were expecting. I don't even know how to write fics that aren't angst filled anymore, but aside from one major event coming up, the rest of the story is a lot more positive/happy. I hope you're all hanging in there, and that you're still enjoying this. 


	14. Chapter 14

The scream wakes her straight from a dead sleep, bolting up in bed, hand curling around something cold and heavy just as the door to her bedroom flies open.

“CLARKE!” Octavia stands there, chest heaving, eyes bright. The elation on her face gives way to confusion for a moment, as she looks at the blonde girl tangled in her sheets. “Wha-why are you holding a lamp?”

Clarke glances over at her hand, and realizes the object she armed herself with was the lamp from her bedside table. She sets it back down with a sigh, then fixes her friend with the most searing glare she can muster given the fact that her heart is still threatening to leap right out of her chest.

“Because you scared the shit out of me!” She growls, flopping back onto the mattress and clutching her chest. “What the fuck, Octavia?”

The bed dips when Octavia lays down beside her. The knowledge that nothing seems to be urgently wrong doesn’t do much to counter the flood of adrenaline coursing through Clarke’s veins. A hand appears directly in front of her face, and she moves to swat it away.

Then she sees it.

“Oh my god.” She sits up again, grabbing Octavia’s hand and staring. “Is that an engagement ring?”

“Lincoln asked me last night, we were hiking and he just stopped and pulled out the ring, and-”

“Oh my god,” Clarke says again, pulling her best friend into a hug. “O, that’s-congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Octavia beams back at her, and Clarke has never seen her this happy. Her heart gives a happy little kick, the kind that comes with seeing a good thing happen to someone who deserves it.

“It’s about time. You two could have come back from your second date married and I wouldn’t have been that surprised.” They’ve been attached at the hip ever since Lincoln moved to Vancouver, and as sickening as they sometimes are, they’re also a storybook kind of perfect for each other. Something suddenly occurs to her. “Have you told Bellamy yet?”

“No,” Octavia fiddles with the ring. “I kind of wanted to enjoy it first. You know Bell, he’ll probably freak out.”

Clarke cocks her head, studying the worried crease between the brunette’s eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I have a feeling he won’t really be surprised.” He’d have to be an idiot not to have seen this coming, and Bellamy Blake is a lot of things, but an idiot is not one of them.

The women lay there in silence for a while, until Octavia slaps Clarke on the thigh, as though suddenly remembering something important.

“You’ll be my maid of honor, right?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Clarke barely registers the buzzing in her blazer pocket as she stares wide-eyed across the counter at Anya.

“What do you-what are you talking about?”

“Like I said the last three times you asked me that question, Oliver is moving back to Paris, full time. I can afford to buy his half of the gallery back from him, but I’d rather have another partner. I think you should buy in, it would mean you no longer have to pay the gallery commission, and to be frank, I like that you probably wouldn’t try to change anything.” Clarke’s phone vibrates again. “Are you going to get that?”

She just shakes her head.

“You want me to co-own the gallery with you?”

“Yes. I assume you wouldn’t really want to be involved as a curator, or too much in the day to day business, but I’ve been running those on my own for years. You would be…”

“A silent partner.”

Anya smiles.

“More like a quiet partner. You’d still have full partnership authority, just less responsibility. I thought you might like the opportunity to work with new artists, help find and develop local creators.”

As the woman Clarke has come to consider a friend continues to speak, the absurdity of the idea begins to fade. Maybe it’s not that crazy. It’s actually starting to sound good. It would give her more leniency as far as producing new paintings, she could take a break when she wanted to and focus on finding and promoting new artists instead. She would own a business. With a twisted smile, Clarke thinks her mother would approve. She tries not to let that ruin it for her.

“Can I think about it?” She finally asks? Anya nods.

“Of course,” and hands her the cheque for her most recent sales. Clarke doesn’t look at the numbers anymore. She knows she makes enough money to do mostly what she likes, enough to pay for the white dress Octavia’s had her eye on for a month. She won’t let Clarke cover the cost of the whole wedding, which Clarke understands and respects, but Octavia has had to compromise enough already. Apparently Lincoln’s family has money, old money, and Clarke knows they’ve offered to pay for as much as Lincoln and Octavia will allow. But Octavia is short on family, and Clarke considers herself part of that, so there’s nothing she’d rather do with the commissions from her sales than put it toward something that will make her best friend smile.

When Clarke pulls out her phone, stepping back out onto the street, she sees the texts on her phone are from the woman she was just thinking about.

  _Set a date – a month from now. Just booked the venue for June 14 th._

And two others.

_Clear your schedule MOH. We’ve got a lot of fucking work to do._

_Where are you? Call me, you know, sometime this year._

The time between messages was less than five minutes. Rolling her eyes, Clarke swipes at the screen, holding her phone up to her ear.

“Hey O,” she greets her friend, sliding into her car. “I think I just bought half an art gallery.”

.-.-.-.-.

“Oh my god, this is-” words slurred over the mouthful of red velvet cake, Octavia just coos.

“So good,” Clarke finishes. There aren’t a lot of bakeries in town who could do a wedding cake on such short notice, so she’s secretly been harbouring the suspicion that they were going to end up with something disgusting. But leave it to Octavia to find some hole in the wall cake shop run by an eighty year-old French woman that can have a cake for one hundred people done on three weeks notice.

“Oh, by the way, Bell’s not bringing a date to the wedding. I asked about his plus one, he said he’s bringing someone named Eddie.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s not a date,” Clarke points out, through a massive bite of lemon pound cake. Octavia snorts.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” Clarke asks absently, making a face and crossing Lavender and Chocolate off her list of contenders.

“Bringing a date?”

This time, Clarke snorts.

“Yeah, right. Who would I bring? Besides, I’m the maid of honour. I’ll probably be running around after you all night, making sure you don’t puke in the planters.”

Octavia just nods at that, looking thoughtful.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Clarke.” Octavia drops the lid to the white box, gaping at the dress folded inside. “Oh, please tell me you didn’t.”

“I could,” Clarke says, dropping onto the couch beside her. “But that would be a lie. Consider this your wedding gift.” She watches her friend pull the gown out, running her fingers along the ivory material.

“This is-”

“The least you can let me do.”

Octavia bites her lip, eyes welling. That’s something Clarke’s never seen before. Then the brunette launches herself into her lap, arms holding her in a crushing hug.

“Thank you.”

“Better than a salad bowl, right?” That earns her a punch to the shoulder.

Clarke just laughs, patting her back, and thinking that was the best five grand she’s ever spent.

.-.-.-.-.

Bellamy is late. His flight was delayed, or something, Clarke never really bothered to get the details from Octavia, but the point is, he’s not here. His sister is walking down the aisle in less than three hours, and he’s still not here.

Clarke tries his cell again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

“Shit.”

Normally, she would have tried to pass this job onto someone else. There’s something distinctly uncomfortable about barraging your ex-boyfriend with phone calls, and text messages, and vaguely threatening e-mails. But she’s the maid of honor, and Octavia will have a meltdown if Bellamy isn’t there in time, so Clarke tries again.

She’s pacing now, in the hotel, the flip flops she’s refusing to change out of until the last possible second slapping against her heels as she traces the same path across the lobby floor. If the way he keeps glancing up at her every ten seconds is any indication, her behaviour is making the concierge nervous. Not that she cares.

And then she hears it.

“Fuck.”

And it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard, because she knows that voice, knows, actually, what that word feels like when it’s pressed against her neck, or her chest, or-

Anyways, she recognizes it.

Turning toward the door, she sees him, garment bag tossed over his suitcase, hair in utter chaos, eyes wild.

“Bellamy!” She calls him name, watches as he scans the room then sees her, visibly relaxing.

“Oh,” he half jogs toward her, wheeling his suitcase behind him. “Thank god, I thought I was going to miss it, I had to pay a cab like an extra hundred bucks to speed, and then-” His voice is a couple octaves higher than usual, words tumbling off his lips in a mess of nerves and what she can only imagine is exhaustion.

“Hey.” She puts a reassuring hand on his arm. This might be weird, maybe, if the circumstances left any room for that. Fortunately, they don’t. “You made it. We’ve got time to get you cleaned up and dressed, and a drink, probably, because I think we both need one.”

She jumps when another man appears from what seems like thin air, a tall, skinny blonde in jeans that cling to his legs like a second skin.

“Oh,” Bellamy glances tiredly between them. “Right. Clarke this is Eddie, Eddie, Clarke.”

Eddie holds out his hand, and Clarke takes it.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

“So you’re Clarke.” He eyes her appraisingly. “I have heard a _lot_ about you.”

Bellamy suddenly stands up a little straighter, eyes sharpening.

“We should get ready,” he mutters, shooting his friend a warning glance, one Clarke catches. She ignores that, filing it away for later reflection.

“Right, you two are in room 540,” she hands over the key cards, “as _soon_ as you’re showered and dressed you need to head to 510, that’s where all the guys are getting their hair done.”

“What?” Bellamy frowns. “But we’re not in the bridal party. Or the grooms…party, men whatever.”

At her wits end, Clarke begins to physically push him toward the elevator.

“Yes, Bell, but you’re walking her down the aisle, and the only family she has at this thing, so you’re going to be in all the pictures.” She glances at Eddie. “You don’t really have to go with him, but if you want our guy to do your hair too, I’m sure that’s fine.”

The blonde smiles.

“Don’t worry Clarke. I’ll make sure _Bell_ here is ready on time. Scouts honour.”

 As the elevator arrives with a ding, Clarke just eyes him warily.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you were ever a Boy Scout.”

Eddie’s grin only widens as he steps into the elevator, turning to Bellamy with an eyebrow raised. He shoots Clarke a wink.

“I like her. You never told me she was so-” but the rest of his sentence is cut off when the doors close, and Clarke just leans up against a pillar for a moment, collecting herself.

.-.-.-.-.-.

Boy scout or not, Eddie keeps his word, and both men are ready and present when the ceremony begins.

Clarke walks down the aisle arm in arm with one of Lincoln’s cousins, a deceptively intimidating man with a face tattoo, who whispers a dirty joke in her ear right as the music starts. She spends the entire walk to the altar struggling to keep a straight face.

And then the Blakes come in. Bellamy looks irritatingly sexy in his tux, hair slicked back in a style that Clarke is surprised actually suits him quite well. Though she still prefers his curls loose and wild. Beside him, Octavia glows, her tanned skin almost ethereal against the white of the linen that pinches in at the waist, the A-line skirt flaring out along the runner making up the aisle. Her hair is mostly loose, a few slim braids twisting in around the curls. She looks beautiful, soft under the strength she always wears like armour, and the look on her face as she locks eyes with Lincoln is so intense that Clarke has to look away.

She’s not crying as they say their vows, half in English, half in Lincoln’s native Trigedasleng, but there’s a pressure in her chest, a melancholy ache that steals her breath a few times. It’s not easier for having Bellamy there, standing across from her, looking tall and beautiful and solid. When the _I do_ ’s are exchanged, Clarke is hit with a wave of missing him that almost knocks her off her feet. But then Lincoln is sweeping Octavia into a deep dip, kissing her, and everyone is cheering, and Clarke can’t help but laugh at the look on Bellamy’s face.

Later, when she’s finally run out of things to do, she collapses into her chair at the head table, knocking back one of the happy couple’s signature cocktails, a vamped up gin and tonic that goes down smooth but seems to have crept up on some of the guests, if the quality of the moves currently on display down on the dance floor are any indication.

Someone drops into the chair beside her, and she looks up to see Bellamy’s friend, Eddie.

“Hi,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey.” He isn’t looking at her, just watching the dancers the same way she was a moment ago.

“Having fun?”

He shrugs.

“Sure. I hit on one of Lincoln’s cousins, turns out she’s married to a guy with a wolf tooth as an earring.”

“Ah,” Clarke tilts her head in understanding. “So you’re hiding out with me?”

His lips twitch.

“Maybe.” Then he turns toward her, studying her. “So, you’re the ex.”

She sighs.

“One of them, I guess.” That earns her a curious glance.

“Have there been a lot?”

She frowns, glancing back at him.

“You’d know better than me. I kind of stopped watching TMZ after the whole Kaitlyn Herald thing.”

This time Eddie actually laughs, and Clarke just grabs another cocktail from a passing caterer, throwing it back.

“God, I forgot about that. Man, it’s a good thing your dating life hasn’t been on the news. Bellamy would-” He stops himself suddenly, lips pressing together.

“Die of boredom, probably,” Clarke mutters, thinking the gin must have gone straight to her head for her to be sharing details of her love life with some stranger who was probably going to report back to Bellamy the first chance he gets. She can feel him staring at her and shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“You know, my brother bought one of your paintings.”

He’s offering her an out, a change of subject, and she’s almost pitifully grateful for it.

“Oh, yeah?” She sits back, dropping her head into her hands. She’s been up since six getting everything organized, and it’s almost ten-thirty now. Between the almost seventeen hours she’s already been awake, and the fact that this has been her first chance to sit down all day, she’s starting to wish she could just go home and pass out.

“Yeah. You do good work. I really like the one you did for Bellamy, it’s very _him_.”

Smiling at the compliment, she just shakes her head.

“You’re the one who outed me, aren’t you?”

“Hey, sister. Don’t blame me for your weird, secretive nature. I was just trying to figure out if Bellamy had been dumped by a millionaire. He never really struck me as an opportunist.”

Clarke snorts a little more loudly than is ladylike.

“Yeah, right. Bellamy, a gold digger? He’d starve before he’d ask me for money.” Just like his sister in that way, both proud to a fault due to their difficult childhoods.

“Mmm,” Eddie just makes a thoughtful noise, still watching her. “You wanna dance?”

Surprised, she just blinks at him. Then she considers that the alternative is sitting here, alone, and some of the weariness in her legs seems to dissolve. It’s a wedding, after all. Besides, Clarke is pretty good at knowing when someone’s hitting on her, and she’s fairly confident Eddie is not. He comes across more as a concerned friend, trying to figure out whether she’s good enough for Bellamy. Not that it actually matters anymore.

“Are you sure? It’ll be tough to hide from Gus on the dance floor.”

Eddie just stands, holding out a hand. After a moments hesitation, she takes it.

It turns out that Eddie is a great dancer, has the rhythm of a musician. They continue to talk a little, while he spins her around, and soon she’s laughing at the story of him being chased out of Michoacán by a mariachi band and a bondsman.

“ _How_ did you end up friends with Bellamy?” She wonders as the song changes, suddenly something slow. For a moment she thinks this might be a good time to retire from the floor, but he throws his arm around her dramatically, a wolfish smile on his face.

Clarke just sighs, draping her own arm over his shoulder and swaying.

“What do you mean?” He asks, referring to her earlier question.

“I mean Bellamy is…careful. You’re whatever the opposite of careful is.”

Eddie considers that, steering them decidedly away from Lincoln’s great aunt Eva, who’s eyeing him curiously.

“If the gossip I heard at the open bar earlier is to be trusted, you’re pretty good friends with that super hot mechanic, who also happens to be the guy your fiancé cheated on you with. So I think you know that friends are sometimes found in the unlikeliest of places. Besides, Bellamy’s not quite as careful as you’d think.”

Clarke stares at him, wondering how it’s possible that someone can move so rapidly between profound and shallow.

“Ex-fiance.” She corrects automatically. And then, with a vague twinge of grief, “late, ex-fiance.”

A shadow of regret passes over his face.

“Right, sorry.”

She shrugs.

As the song changes again, another ballad, a hand comes down on her shoulder, one that clearly doesn’t belong to Eddie.

“Mind if I cut in?”

The cocktails seem to be finally kicking in, and Clarke swallows hard when she recognizes Bellamy’s voice. Eddie actually glances at her first, which she finds surprisingly sweet, and when she nods he drops his hands.

“All yours, _Bell_.” The nickname is clearly mocking off the lips of the musician, but Bellamy just rolls his eyes.

His arms wind easily around her, hands a little hesitant, but familiar.

“Hey,” he says, dark eyes slanted down at her. She sometimes forgets how tall he is, even in her heels she barely comes up to his chin.

“Hey.” She replies, trying not to be completely distracted by the way his fingertips feel against the bare skin of her back where her dress cuts out. “How does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“You know, now that Octavia’s all grown up, married. You did a good job, raising her.”

His face slides into a smile, one that looks a little surprised.

“Thanks. It feels…weird. I’m always gonna look out for her, you know. But it’s different now. She doesn’t need me anymore.”

Clarke shakes her head.

“She’ll always need you, Bellamy. Just because she’s growing up, figuring out who she wants to be in the world, that will never change.”

His gaze darkens, grip tightening slightly.

“We _are_ still talking about Octavia, right?”

Clarke stops, the blood rushing to her face. She feels woozy.

“Of course,” she mumbles, dropping her arms and taking a step back.

“Clarke-”

“I need some air,” she says, because it’s the politest way she can think to say _please leave me alone_. He nods, looking caught.

“Okay.”

She stumbles out of the hall, into the lobby, pressing a hand to her head. Stupid, she thinks, letting him get so close again. Stupid to think he wouldn’t get under her skin, to think he hasn’t been there all along.

“Are you alright?”

For the second time that night, Clarke finds herself blinking up in surprise at a man much taller than herself. This one looks familiar, but she can’t place him at first.

“Just needed some air,” she repeats, forcing a smile. When he smiles nervously back, she recognizes him as the concierge from earlier, the one who was working when Bellamy and Eddie first arrived.

“Oh,” he rocks back on his heels. “Sure. Is there anything I can get you?”

She takes a moment to clear the fog from her mind, peering around the grand marble lobby. Everything about it looks expensive, the kind of place her mother used to attend charity functions for the hospital. Lincoln’s family must have paid for it, there’s no way him and Octavia could have afforded a place like this. When the man clears his throat, Clarke realizes he’s still waiting for an answer.

“I’m okay,” she assures him, smile still plastered on her face. There’s a small cluster of plush chairs to her right, and she drops into the nearest one. “Thank you.”

Still, he hovers.

“Did _you_ need something?” She eventually asks, wondering why he won’t just go back to the front desk.

He seems to be conflicted, gloved hands twisting anxiously at his waist.

“I don’t want to sound creepy, but are you Dr. Griffin?”

She blinks.

“Um.” It’s been a long time since anyone has called her that. “I was, I guess. I’m not a doctor anymore.”

He nods.

“My name’s Steve.”

Clarke tries to focus her eyes, looking him over. He does look familiar, thirty-something with brown hair, brown eyes. He looks like a hundred people she’s known in her life.

“You um, you treated my girlfriend a couple years ago. Maya Campbell? She was in a car accident.”

Oh.

Her, Clarke remembers. It was one of the first surgeries she ever scrubbed in on, and it had been-

A mess. Hemorrhaging everywhere, lungs shredded, heart damaged beyond repair. She still has nightmares about it, sometimes. And the longer she looks at the boyfriend, Steve, she starts to remember him too. He’d been a disaster, she’d eventually had to hold his hand while the nurses sedated him. She never saw him, after that.

Until now.

“Right,” she gets to her feet again, feeling strange and formal. “How have you been?”

It seems like a stupid question, given that his girlfriend died, but Clarke knows firsthand that life moves on. He shrugs.

“Better lately. It’s been hard.”

“Yeah,” she ducks her head, guilt from that day coming rushing back up to the surface. “I can imagine. I’m sorry, for your loss.”

His eyes dip to the floor, sad and heavy.

“Thanks. I never really got a chance to thank you then, you know, after.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, lips pressing together in confusion.

“Thank me?” She’d operated, and Maya had died. She never would have expected gratitude for something like that.

“For being there, when I-I remember you were nice to me. A lot of that night is a blur, but I remember you.”

She’d stayed, calmed him down enough to sit still while the nurses pumped him full of Lorazepam. It had been partially out of guilt, the kind of overwhelming misery that surgeons are known to drown in, especially the first few times. But Clarke knows what it’s like to feel that pain, the way it radiates like poison from your chest until it feels like you’ll explode from the sheer force of it. So he’s right, she stayed until he was asleep, but the truth is that while she thinks about the girl laying cold on that table all the time, she hasn’t thought about Steven in years.

Her mouth is dry when she answers.

“Of course. You’re uh, you don’t have to thank me.” The room is spinning a little, and she suddenly wants more than anything to take a nap. Her job, for the night, is mostly done. They can manage the cleanup without her. Octavia and Lincoln are both further in the bottle than she is, they won’t even remember that she didn’t say goodbye. “I think it’s probably time for me to call it a night, though,” she manages, fishing her room card out of her purse. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

Steven looks like he wants to say something else, but after a second or two pass, he smiles back.

“Okay. Um, drink a lot of water,” he offers, as she staggers toward the elevator. She grimaces.

“I will. Have a good…shift.” It occurs to her that he’s been there for almost twelve hours. That seems like an unreasonably long day for a concierge, but maybe he needs the overtime. When the elevator doors close she slumps against the wall, rubbing her temples. A soft ding alerts her to their arrival at the fifth floor, and she makes her way painfully to her room. One shoe is already off when she reaches for the light switch, and then she hears the noises.

Moaning. And-

Oh. Raven’s not alone. Clarke backs away as quietly as she can, the knowledge that they didn’t hear her come in a small comfort.

“Ah, _Eddie_ -”

Clapping a hand to her mouth, Clarke almost falls over herself in an effort to get out of there before she’s noticed, or before she has to hear anything else.

 Clumsily, she steps back into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her. It looks like she needs to find a new place to sleep. And in light of the company that Raven has decided to keep tonight, Clarke can think of at least one bed that she knows to be empty. One that doesn’t require a long and expensive cab ride back to her loft.

Five minutes later she’s banging on the door, shoes in hand, head resting exhaustedly against the wall. It only takes roughly a dozen sharp knocks for the inhabitant to wrench it open, glaring down at her with the intense kind of anger that can only truly be achieved by waking a very tired person from a very deep sleep.

“Clarke?” His eyebrows unfurrow to disappear into his hairline. “What are you doing here?”

She pushes past him with ease, dropping her heels beside the still made bed and flopping down on the mattress with a sigh. The sound of the door closing is followed by footsteps, and when she opens one eye she’s confronted with an up-close view of a pair of tanned knees.

“Looks like we’re bunking together tonight, friend,” she says with a yawn. “Seeing as how I’ve just been sexiled.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little shorter, but I figured it would be better to just post it now, as is, rather than waiting until I can finish the next scene. I realized today that this has officially become the longest fic I've ever written! So that's something! Anyways, I hope you like this, I promise Bellamy and Clarke are on their way back to each other.

“You-what?”

The confusion is evident in Bellamy’s voice, though Clarke barely even registers that he’s talking through her exhaustion. This bed is soft, and comfortable, and the whole room smells like him, and now that she’s vertical, she’s tempted to pass out without even crawling under the sheets.

“S’Raven,” she mumbles into the duvet. “We’re sharing a room, and she’s _entertaining_ , so it’s not like I can really crash there tonight.”

“Oh.” The other bed creaks slightly as he sits down on it, and from the one eye that isn’t smushed into the blankets, Clarke can see him looking at her. “Alright. I’m not sharing with Eddie though, so if he comes back-”

“Then I’ll know it’s safe to go back to my own room, considering he’s the one Raven’s hooking up with.”

Deciding she won’t likely get to sleep anytime in the next five minutes, Clarke sits up, rubbing her eyes.

“Huh.” Bellamy digests that information for a moment, then rolls his eyes. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Really?” Clarke groans, sliding backwards to rest her back against the headboard. “I don’t know him that well, but I’m not exactly surprised. Eddie could be on the DVD case for Wedding Crashers.”

He makes a noise of agreement.

“I’m not surprised he’s hooking up, just that he’s hooking up with Raven.”

She opens one eye again, rolling her head to the side so she can stare at him.

“What’s wrong with Raven?” She asks, warning in her voice. He puts his hands up, apologetic.

“Nothing, I just thought he had his eye on someone else.”

“Oh.” Satisfied, Clarke shuts her eyes again, shivering when her lack of motion, and clothing, begins to catch up with her. The forest green theme of the wedding had included the bridesmaid dresses, tight, strapless numbers that Clarke had been secretly afraid of spilling out of all night. The other bridesmaids weren’t quite as she chesty as her, and there had been a couple close calls. “God, do you have the AC on blast or something?”

“No. Maybe you should put on a sweater or something.”

This time, when Clarke opens her eyes, she catches him just as he looks away, eyes dark.

“I didn’t exactly get a chance to grab my bag.” Instead, she throws back the covers, sliding underneath them with a sigh. The sheets are surprisingly soft, for a hotel, and though the fabric is cool against her skin, she feels a little warmer protected from the draft in the room. As her eyes drift shut, something occurs to her. “Did you mean Aria?”

“What?”

“Whoever you thought Eddie was going to hook up with, was it Aria? Gustus’s wife?”

“Uh,” there’s a pause before he answers. “No. Why?”

She shrugs into the comforter, debating just taking the constricting dress off.

“I d’no,” she mumbles. “He mentioned hitting on her, til he realized she was married.” Beginning to warm up, she tugs the dress off under the covers, then tosses it to the side.

“ _What-_ ” comes Bellamy’s voice, sounding strangely constricted, “-are you doing?”

She forces her eyes open, groaning at the light in the room. Then she sees her dress, having landed neatly on Bellamy’s bed.

“Oh,” she just sighs. “Do you know how uncomfortable that thing was? Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll stay under the covers.”

He stares at her for a moment, a little slack jawed, which her alcohol soaked brain chocks up simply to fatigue, then gets up and disappears into the little alcove beside the bathroom. A few moments later she can hear him coming back, and then something soft hits her squarely in the face. She knows, even after all this time, even with her eyes closed, that it’s Bellamy’s McGill shirt. She can tell just from the way it smells, and how it’s worn so thin she can almost put her finger through it. That ache comes back, the one in her chest that seems to echo every time she breathes in, smelling him. Her hand curls around the shirt.

“Thanks,” she mutters, before pulling it under the covers and then over her head. He doesn’t say anything, and if he nods, she can’t see it. It should probably be hard, to sleep with him there, awkward and strained and tense.

But after he shuts off the light, and she can hear his steady breathing, the familiar scent of him surrounding her, Clarke is gone before she has a chance to say goodnight.

.-.-.-.-.

It’s not the arm around her waist that wakes her, or the hand on her breast. It’s the sleepy sigh, right in her ear, the one that doesn’t sound quite right.

She cranes her head, blinking against the soft early morning light, and then recognizes the face pressed into her hair.

“What are you doing?”

Eddie squints blearily up at her.

“Oh. You’re not the mechanic.” His words wash over her, along with a potent cloud of whiskey.

“Oh my god,” her face crumples in disgust. “You smell like a distillery. What, did you go back to the bar after you guys hooked up?”

His drunken confusion is answer enough for her, and she makes a mental note to give someone, somewhere a slap on the wrist for over serving their guests.

Beside them, the other bed begins to move, and a messy mop of dark brown curls eventually pops up like a meercat.

“Clarke, shut up,” Bellamy mutters, voice hoarse and thick with sleep.

She elbows Eddie in the side, realizing he still has one hand firmly cupped around her breast.

His bare leg brushes hers, and then he looks slowly down at the duvet covering them, a frown forming.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” he notes, making no sign of moving away.

 At the sound of his voice, Bellamy suddenly sits straight up, blinking at the two of them in confusion.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asks, taking in the way his friend is curled around Clarke like a housecat.

“Your friend here hooked up in my room, banishing me to your room, hit up the bar, and has now come back to drunkenly grope me.” Clarke grumbles, considering whether physically pushing Eddie out of the bed would take too much effort.

‘Wh-”

Bellamy is suddenly on his feet, glaring down at them. The hand holding tight to her chest suddenly loosens.

“Eddie. Go shower.”

The blonde complies with a sigh, sliding out of the bed to reveal that he’s wearing only boxers. He disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water comes on a few seconds later.

“It’s like he’s actually _trying_ to annoy me,” she mutters, rolling onto her back.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. He’s not usually like that.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” She wonders, then remembers who she’s talking to. “Nevermind. You hungry?”

“Uh,” he turns back toward her, and the sight of him in his boxers makes heat curl in her stomach. She looks away. “I guess. Why?”

“I want breakfast. Also, I don’t think I’m ready to be hungover yet. And they have mimosas.”

 When she glances back at him, he’s frowning at her.

“Or not.” She says hurriedly, wondering if she’s just made a fool of herself. It really was just an offer for breakfast.

“No.” He shakes his head. Then, catching sight of her face, corrects himself. “I mean yes. I just figured you’d want to sleep in. You’re not exactly a morning person.”

Right. She’d almost let herself forget exactly how well he knows her.

“I can be,” she mutters huffily, if only to annoy him. He rolls his eyes.

“Clarke. Remember when you asked me to wake you up early so you could go for a run?” He raises an eyebrow.

She does remember.

“I didn’t _mean_ it,” she grumbles, sliding out of bed and stretching wearily.

“When you asked me to wake you up? Or when you threatened to disembowel me?”

Her lips tug into a wry smile.

“You’re the one who asked me to read an entire medical journal about war-era torture.”

“I needed an expert opinion,” he argues.

She sighs. The cold ache blooming in her chest is familiar, one she recognizes from the first few weeks after they’d finally called things off for good. Him just being here is apparently enough to bring it back, hollow and creeping.

God, she _misses_ him. But he’ll be gone again in less than 24 hours. And nothing has changed, not for her. She can’t have half of him. It’s just not enough.

“Is that what you’re wearing to breakfast?” He suddenly asks. “This is kind of a fancy place. Not that I care.”

She looks down, at his ratty t-shirt and her bare legs.

“Oh. Hmm.” Walking around the bed, she starts searching for her discarded bridesmaid dress. The sound of water stops. “I know it’s here-” she stops when a towel drops nearly in front of her face. And then the ass that was concealed by the towel is also, suddenly, in her face.

“EDDIE!” Bellamy roars, as Clarke claps a hand over her mouth, snorting. Eddie whirls around, finally spotting Clarke where she’s sitting on the floor, wedged between the wall and the bed.

“Oh.” His eyebrows go up, but as he hastily wraps the towel back around his waist, there’s not even a shred of embarrassment in his grin. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were still here. When I didn’t see you, I just assumed you’d gone back to your own room.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“It’s fine.” She glances at Bellamy, who’s pinching the bridge of his nose irritable, and her lips twitch. “I’ve seen worse.”

Eddie’s tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth, face breaking into a cheeky smile.

“I mean, if you had to _rate_ it…”

She considers that.

“Like, how? On a scale of one to ten?”

“Sure.”

“Hmm. I-”

Bellamy coughs loudly, interrupting their conversation.

“Weren’t we going to get breakfast?” He asks pointedly. She blinks.

“Oh. Yeah. I just need to find my dress.”

In front of her, Eddie bends over, then straightens, her dress dangling from his finger.

“And what a fine dress it is.”

She takes it with a suspicious frown.

“Are you hitting on me? Because like eight hours ago I walked in on you having sex with my best friend.”

He stares at her, obviously surprised.

“Wait, like, literally?”

She nods.

“Oh. Sorry about that. We didn’t-”

“Hear me.” She finishes for him, stepping into her dress. She tugs it up, under Bellamy’s t-shirt. The hem barely covers anymore than what she was already wearing, but at least it’s technically a whole outfit. “Trust me, _I know_.” Flashes of the night before come back to her, the noises in the dark. Her face twists in a grimace. She tugs the shirt off, shivering as the well air conditioned air hits her bare arms.

 “Are you ready?” Bellamy asks, from where he’s leaning against the wall. He’s been fairly quiet, Clarke notices, during this exchange.

“I guess.” She turns back to the blonde musician, sliding past him toward the door. “I’d invite you, but I think I’ve reached my Eddie quota for the day.” Bellamy snorts.

“S’alright. I’m gonna crash anyways, I need a nap. Didn’t sleep much last night.” True to his word, Eddie walks over to the bed Clarke was in only a few moments ago, and flops onto it face first, not bothering to get under the sheets. Or change out of his towel. Clarke has a strong suspicion that whenever Bellamy makes it back to his room, the towel will have been discarded. Her stomach growls ferociously, and she glances down at it in surprise. “And no,” Eddie adds, voice muffled into the pillow. “I wasn’t hitting on you.” She’s not sure whether she believes him, but her body is beginning to make demands she can’t ignore.

“Okay,” she mutters, talking half to Bellamy and half to her stomach. “We’re going.”

They get to the elevator before he speaks.

“So,” he looks over at her. “paint anything lately?” She tenses at the question, but he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s still mad about it, so she just shrugs.

“Yeah, a few things. I, uh-” She bites her lip. “I’m actually buying into the gallery that’s been selling my stuff. I’ll co-own it, with the girl who runs it now.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “That’s-congratulations.”

And there it is, the awkwardness that they’ve been too busy, or too drunk, or too tired to really notice. Until now.

“Thanks.” The elevator doors open, and they step out, Clarke putting a hand lightly on his arm to guide him toward the restaurant. “What about you?”

“Uh,” he holds up two fingers when the host asks about a table. “Have I bought any art galleries or painted anything lately?”

Her lips twitch.

“Sure.”

“No. But the show’s been nominated for an Emmy.”

Clarke stops suddenly, the host still making a beeline for their empty table, and Bellamy bumps into her back.

“You-what?” She gapes at him. He just takes her by the shoulders, pushing her toward the table, and into a seat. He doesn’t say anything as the host hands them two menus, and then disappears. “Bellamy,” Clarke says impatiently, when he begins browsing through the waffle list.

“What?” He asks innocently, looking at her over the menu.

“You’ve been nominated for an _Emmy_?”

“Apparently. It’s not official yet, I don’t even know what category it’s for, but-”

“That’s amazing!”

“It will be probably just be something really obscure, the stuff they don’t air, like set design for a period drama, or-”

“Shut up!” She hits him on the bicep, hard. “That’s still amazing! You’re a Canadian show, and you’ve only aired one season. That’s _huge_.”

His carefully neutral expression slips, and then he’s beaming at her. She remembers this, how he’s humble to the point of martyrdom sometimes, that he needs to be reminded that it’s alright to be proud. To want things.

She wants to kiss him. But she won’t.

“Thanks.” His voice is soft. Clarke just nods, feeling all the filled in cracks in her chest slowly pulling back apart. How can it still be so hard?

When their drinks come, and screw mimosas, this calls for actual champagne, she raises her glass in a toast. Her second in twenty-four hours.

“To us. Living our dreams.” She leaves out the part where there are days that she thinks maybe he’s her dream, and she’s making a mistake. But he raises his glass anyways, tapping it against hers.

“I feel like a Manhattan housewife drinking champagne with breakfast,” he mutters, but he’s flashing her that side smile that she’ll never admit still gives her butterflies. “To living the dream, Princess.”

It’s been ages since he’s called her that. She forces a smile in return, then downs the whole glass. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter that it’s barely eight in the morning, she wishes she had something stronger.

“So,” she eventually breaks the heavy silence that has settled between them. “Waffles?”

.--.-.-.-.-.-.

An hour later, she’s almost forgotten. There’s a shred of self-preservation, and she’s hanging from it like a climber to a vine, but the truth is that she’s dangerously tempted to let go. To pretend, for a little longer, that this is how things are. That they are still an _us_.

So when he looks at his phone, and swears at the time, and the realization that he’s leaving now, that there’s no _us_ anymore, it’s only _mostly_ like being punched in the stomach. There’s no reason for him to go back to his room with him, she didn’t leave anything there. He has to pack, and catch a flight, and go home. Back to the other side of the country.

 _This is what you wanted_ , Clarke thinks, as she leans in for a brief and polite goodbye hug. She doesn’t let herself linger as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

But it’s not. And she watches him walk away with an almost physically heavy melancholy.

 _I love you_. God, she still does, maybe even more than before. How is that possible, when she hasn’t seen him in months? Still, the words are there, like they’ve been scratched on the inside of her mind with something sharp and cold. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

And then, with a jolt, she realizes the words on repeat in her mind are ones that Bellamy has never heard from her. Not once.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 6 am and I can't sleep because I've been having an anxiety attack for the past two hours so here, have another chapter. And have a little faith, guys. It's called slow burn for a reason.

“Congratulations.” Clarke’s attorney, a stone faced woman named Ava, holds out her hand, voice clipped. Clarke takes it, smiling.

“Thanks.” It turns out buying an art gallery isn’t as much work as she thought it would be. Forty-five minutes and close to a million dollars later, her and Anya are the new owners of Brave Art. There’s still some number she’s going to have to go over, and apparently she needs an accountant now, but it’s done. She did it. She bought a business.

“I’ll leave you two to celebrate,” Ava says, swiping her briefcase off the back of her chair and giving Anya a curt smile. Then she’s gone, the sound of her stilettos sharp on the hardwood of the gallery floors. They’re in an office in the upper level of the building, an area Clarke’s never been in before. Unsurprisingly, the space is dotted with paintings and sculptures with a distinct West Coast feel, she can almost still smell the cedar of the floors.

“So, partners?” Clarke asks, grinning in earnest now. Anya smiles back, amused at her enthusiasm.

“I guess it’s probably too late for me to change my mind.”

Her joke doesn’t detract from Clarke’s feeling that this is something _good_.

.-.-.-.-.-.

She’s at the bakery when she gets his text. Clarke fervently blames Octavia for discovering the little pâtisserie in the first place. The pastries are sinful, particularly the petit fours, which are small enough that she doesn’t have to feel too guilty after inhaling two or three. Plus, she likes the ambience. The owner, an ancient, angry Frenchwoman named Elle Marche, does nearly everything herself, refuses to serve Clarke unless she orders in French, and then proceeds to mock her accent every time.

“Bonjour Madame Marche.”

“Votre accent est toujours atroce . Quelques petits fours pour vous aujourd'hui ?” Elle gestures at the pastry case, and Clarke nods.

“Oui, trois s'il vous plait _._ ”

The woman plucks three petit fours from the display, dropping them into a tiny white box and thrusting it over the counter at Clarke. Just as she takes it, her phone vibrates in her pocket. She pays Elle, then retreats to the corner of the shop to look at the text.

**_We got the nomination. It’s not set design._ **

Setting the box down in a nearby window ledge, she fires a text back.

_What’s it for??_

He answers so quickly she almost wonders if he sent his reply before she finished hers.

**_Outstanding writing for a drama series_ ** **.**

She stares at her phone. Then, making a decision, swipes right and holds it to her ear. Elle watches her suspiciously from over the counter.

“Hello?” He answers unassumingly, as though he has no idea who it could be.

“You’re fucking joking.” Elle makes a scandalized noise, and Clarke holds up a hand in apology.

“Who is this?”

“Shut up,” she hisses, delighted. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.” She can hear the grin in his voice. “I mean, we’re not going to win, the other nominees will be, like, Game of Thrones, but even being nominated, that’s-”

“Oh my god.” She’s actually bouncing a little on the spot, ignoring the curious glances from other patrons. “Bellamy, that’s-it’s-it’s-”

“Are you having a stroke?” He asks, feigning concern. He sounds smug, almost, and if he were here she would definitely hit him.

“God. Are you freaking out? I’m freaking out.”

He snorts.

“Would you relax?”

“No!” She shouts, and a stream of angry French follows. “Oh-hold on.” She turns to Elle, waving her hand and ducking her head apologetically. “Ahh, pardon! Pardon. Je serai tranquille.”

“What was that? Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at a bakery.”

“In…Quebec?”

“No, it’s just run by a _lovely-”_ she emphasizes the word loud enough that Elle can hear. “-Frenchwoman. Who’s staring daggers at me for being loud.”

“Oh. If you need to go…”

“I don’t. And I called you, weirdo.” Her voice softens. “I’m really happy for you, Bellamy.”

For a moment, he’s quiet.

“Thank you.”

“Do you-” She’s cut off by a noise on his end, a woman’s voice. They exchange words she can’t understand for a few seconds, then Bellamy grunts.

“I’ve gotta go,” he mutters. She tries, and fails, not to deflate at that.

“Of course. Congratulations, Bell.”

“Thanks, Clarke.” He hesitates, and for a moment she can’t tell if he’s still there. “I’ll talk to you, uh…”

“Yeah,” she says, knowing.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

As she hangs up, she ignores the way Elle is staring at her appraisingly. She grabs her box of pastries and pushes through the door. There’s suddenly a hollow emptiness in her chest that she’s really hoping these petit fours will be able to fill.

.-.-.-.

Clarke owes Octavia. She reminds herself of that when her alarm goes off at five am, and again in the car at five-thirty, and again when she pulls into the parking lot at the airport. It’s her turn to pick her friend up at arrivals, for once.

But, you know, it’s six in the morning.

She finishes chugging the Starbucks picked up on the way, then tosses it in a trash can next to the bench she’s sitting on. As she leans back, her eyes drift shut. She’s almost asleep when she hears her name, a smoky shout that could only have come from one person. Groaning, she opens one eye just in time to see Octavia springing to pounce.

“We’re back, bitch!”

Lincoln is standing back, watching his wife assault Clarke with only an amused smile.

“Uh-huh.” Clarke gets to her feet with some difficulty, slinging an arm over Octavia’s shoulders. “How was it?”

“God, _amazing_ , there were these little monkeys, and Lincoln got into a fight with this, like, ninety-year old Indonesian woman.”

“What?” Clarke turns her head to stare at Lincoln, who rolls his eyes.

“She’s exaggerating. Octavia, stop telling people that.”

“Okay, but he was really pissed when she tried to rip us off for directions to our hotel.”

“Mhmm.” They round the corner for the baggage carousels, and Clarke realizes she actually did miss the two of them while they were gone. Octavia really has become family to her, and Lincoln is a hard person to dislike. Especially when he loves her best friend with the kind of devotion that makes Clarke feel equal parts jealous and embarrassed. “Did you get me anything?”

.-.-.-.-.

Sometimes, there are bad days. Today is one of them.

She’s laying on her couch, an empty bottle of JD on her table, a blanket wrapped so tightly around her that she almost doesn’t feel quite so much like she’s going to fall completely apart. There’s a knock on her door, and she doesn’t answer it, but she’s also not entirely sure she locked it.

And then she hears the click of the handle, and the sound of boots in her foyer, so. Apparently she did not.

She’s expecting Octavia, or maybe Raven. Someone to come pull her out of this darkness that just seems to fall out of the sky every once in a while, heavy and binding and suffocating. But it’s not either of them.

It’s her mother.

“Mom?” She blinks through the haze of alcohol and fatigue. “What are you doing here?”

“I called…a few times. We were supposed to meet for coffee at two.” Abbie kneels beside the couch, studying Clarke silently.

“Oh.” She glances at the clock on her wall. It’s after three. “Right. Sorry.”

As she struggles to sit up, her mother frowns.

“Are you alright? You don’t look well.”

“Thanks,” Clarke mutters, pushing the hair out of her face and pretending her head isn’t spinning. Abbie’s gaze falls on the empty bottle.

“I…I know we’ve had our disagreements.” That’s an understatement, really. “But I’m still your mother. If something is wrong, you can talk to me.”

“I’m just having a bad day.” Her mouth is dry. She gets to her feet, heading toward the kitchen. Her mother trails behind, hovering.

“Did something-”

“Nothing happened. It’s just…” she doesn’t know how to say it, how to explain the way some days she just wakes up with all of these ghosts like a weight on her chest. “A _bad day_.”

“Oh. I see.” And when Clarke turns back to her, lifting the glass of water to her lips, she’s surprised to find that she believes it. There’s a softness to her mother’s face that tells her she does, in fact, understand.

“I’m sorry I missed coffee.”

“That’s alright. Are you…do you want to talk about it?”

She shrugs.

“Not really.” It will pass, eventually. It always does.

Abbie sinks into one of the stools at the kitchen island, tapping her fingers absently against the granite.

“I heard Octavia and Lincoln got back?”

Clarke blinks at that. Sometimes she forgets that half her friends still work at the hospital with her mother.

“Uh, yeah. A few days ago.”

“Did they…” Abbie’s reaching here, trying to find some common ground, and Clarke doesn’t know whether to resent or appreciate the effort. “-have a good time?”

“I think so.”

There’s something strange about this, them here in her kitchen, after everything. When Clarke quit the internship, they didn’t speak for months. But eventually Abbie had reached out, and although they’re far from close, they see each other from time to time. Whether it’s for coffee, or lunch, or a quick dinner, they make the effort. Abbie is the parent Clarke has left. And as much as they seem to disappoint each other, over and over and over again, that still means something. The whiskey tugs at that, the faded sense of family here, of maternity and home.

“I miss him,” Clarke says, before she can stop it. Abbie looks up at her, eyes sad in a way that somehow makes Clarke feel less alone. Like maybe Abbie’s bad days aren’t so different from hers.

“Who, baby?”

And isn’t that the question? Her father, Finn, Bellamy, their faces seem to blur into one distant, untouchable thing from her past.

“I’m not even sure anymore.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

“So, did he tell you?” Octavia asks, swiping at a stray hair that’s fallen into her face. The action leaves a black smear of calligraphy ink across her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did who tell me what?”

“Bell’s gonna be in _Earthbound_. Like actually in it. The director couldn’t find anyone they liked for a small part, so they decided to just give it to him.”

Clarke almost knocks over her finished stack of Thank You notes.

“ _What_?”

“Right? I can’t imagine him acting. He’s always complaining about the actors he has to work with.”

“Maybe the whole part is him standing around acting surly,” Clarke suggests, sealing the last card in her stack with a sticker. They’ve been at this for hours, writing up notes for all of Octavia’s wedding gifts. “Or giving some kind of long, angry speech. He’s good at those.”

“Mmm, maybe. He hasn’t really said much about the part itself.”

“I’m kind of surprised he agreed to do it. Did he sound excited?”

Octavia shrugs.

“Not really, more like he felt obligated to. But he’ll only be in one episode, so.”

“Weird.”

A few more minutes go by, Clarke beginning to sort the cards into their respective envelopes.

“There’s something else.”

She looks back up, waiting.

“He’s seeing someone.”

Clarke waits for that to sink in, then finds she isn’t surprised. It still hurts, like someone has slapped an elastic band against her heart, but mostly she just realizes she’s been waiting for this.

“Okay. Who?”

“Kaitlyn Herald, again.”

Slumping down in her chair, Clarke sighs.

“I can’t really blame him. She is _super_ hot.”

“I guess,” Octavia replies, looking at Clarke curiously. “You okay?”

Clarke shrugs.

“Yeah. I mean it’s been a long time, he should be dating.”

“Should he?”

“Octavia.” Clarke gives her friend a stern look. The brunette just sighs, turning back to her thank you notes.

“Fine. So, there’s this guy at my gym, he’s single, and-”

“That’s it.” Clarke throws down her roll of stamps. “I’m out of here.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

The truth is, Clarke didn’t break up with Bellamy so she could date someone closer to home. She broke up with him because her life was here, in Vancouver, and she wanted to live it. So she’s been burying herself in work, and painting, and Octavia and Raven, because _those_ are the things she sacrificed her relationship for.

But when Hayley smiled at her over her latte, Clarke couldn’t help but smile back. And when she found the phone number written on the side of her cup, she’d texted.

And now they’re here, sitting in the Keg, Hayley shooting her that same shy smile, and it feels like for the first time since Bellamy, she’s actually _trying_ to move on.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“That’s beautiful,” Hayley rests her chin on Clarke’s shoulder, studying the painting in front of them.

“Right?” Clarke lets out a happy sigh, content just to look at the canvas a little longer. She’s been taking Anya’s advice and searching the city for local talent, trawling the art festivals and the student shows and getting leads here and there from people she knows. It’s not easy, and she learned early on to temper her expectations, but every once in a while she finds someone like this, and that makes it all worth while.

“Who did this one, again?”

“This nineteen year-old who was selling sketches in Stanley Park. He had a few pieces for sale and I saw this and just thought…there’s no way this kid should be selling these for fifty bucks and living out of his truck,” Clarke recounts. So she’d asked him if he’d ever considered selling his art somewhere with four walls and a roof, and taken him out for lunch. “His name is Dennis Brayden.”

“He’s really talented. Much like someone else I know.” Hayley says softly, winding her arms around Clarke’s waist. A strand of her long black curls falls forward, and Clarke gives it a gentle tug.

“Keep it in your pants, Griffin.”

They both spin around to see Anya hauling a wrapped canvas up the stairs, looking bemused. Hayley drops her hands, looking embarrassed. Clarke just rolls her eyes.

“You need a hand?”

“No.” Then Anya’s eyes fall on the painting Clarke has leaned against the railing. “Is that the one by the Brayden boy?” Clarke nods, and the curator sets her own package down to come look at it. “This is very good. You have a knack for this.”

Clarke just shrugs.

“So we’ll show it?”

“Yes, I think so. You can tell him he’ll get the same deal you did, half off our first commission fee. His might not sell for as much, but we’ll have that Suzy Arbor collection in by this weekend and I think those will complement this nicely. How much did you say he was charging?”

“Fifty dollars. He was doing those caricature drawings in the park.”

Much to her surprise, Anya smiles at that.

“It’s always nice to see someone with that kind of dedication.”

Clarke makes a noise of disagreement.

“He was sleeping in his truck.”

“Not everyone has the resources you did,” Anya reminds her sternly. “Some people have to make decisions about pursuing their passion or making a living. You were lucky.”

She thinks about that for a moment, then bites her lip.

“Do you think we could get him…an advance or something? We both know the painting will sell, and he could really-”

“I’ve already cut him a cheque,” Anya says, cutting her off.

“Oh.” Clarke smiles sheepishly. “Alright. Thanks.” She turns back to Hayley, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet. “We should get going.”

Hayley nods, and they wave goodbye to Anya, making their way down the stairs and out of the gallery.

“That was unfair,” Hayley says, when they’re finally out on the street. Clarke frowns.

“What was?”

“Anya shouldn’t have said that, about your money. There was no need to be so bitchy.”

Clarke runs through the conversation in her mind, then realizes what the brunette is talking about.

“Oh, no it’s fine. She was right.”

“It’s not _fine-_ ”

Clarke has never seen her date worked up like this. They’ve been seeing each other for almost a month, and the girl has always been even tempered, shy almost. But now her face is twisted sourly, eyes narrowed.

“Hey, seriously.” They come to a stop on the sidewalk, Clarke catching Hayley’s eye. “It’s fine. I’m not upset. She was just being a friend. Sometimes I need to be reminded that not everyone was brought up like I was.”

“I just think-”

“Let it go,” Clarke says, firmly this time. Hayley blinks at her tone, but eventually nods.

“Okay. Sorry. What do you want to do for lunch?”

Their hands lace back together, and the conversation from then on is lighthearted, but Clarke can’t quite get rid of that unsettled feeling that’s suddenly taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“She’s…pretty.” Raven says, as they both look over their shoulders at Hayley, who’s working behind the bar at the café.

“But?” Clarke asks, raising an eyebrow at her friend’s tone.

“She’s just-she’s not really your type, is she? I mean, she’s so…nice.”

“Are you saying I only date assholes?”

“Well,” Raven looks thoughtful. “You dated Finn, and Bellamy. And you hooked up with Miller. Oh, and that girl from your internship, what was her name?”

“Emma.”

“Yeah, she was a serious bitch.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but doesn’t argue. Raven isn’t the first person to point out her attraction to people with…strong opinions.

“Hayley’s not as nice as you’d think,” she murmurs absently, watching her girlfriend serve up something hot and frothy to a man in a suit. As always, she’s sporting a sweet smile, one that suits her.

“What do you mean?”

“Uh,” Clarke shakes her head subtly as Hayley comes out from behind the counter, toward them.

“Hey, babe.” She leans down to kiss Clarke quickly, looking curiously over at Raven. “Who’s this?”

“Hayley, this is my friend Raven, Raven, Hayley.”

There’s a tense silence for a moment, then Raven cracks a grin.

“I guess you’ll do.”

Hayley stares at her for a moment, smiling only as Raven’s own begins to fade uncertainly.

“Sorry, my brain is kind of fried after the morning rush. But it was nice to meet you.” Hayley tells her, smile still plastered in place. “I should get back.”

She walks away, leaving Clarke to frown after her, confused.

“Was that weird? Or is it just me?” Raven finally asks. Clarke turns to look at her, blinking.

“No, that was weird.”

The two women just kind of look at each other for a moment, until Raven speaks up again.

“I don’t want to be a jerk, but…are you sure about her?”

“Yeah,” Clarke answers automatically. Hayley is sweet, and she does things like bring home petit fours when Clarke has had a bad day, and it’s really, really nice not to have to go to bed alone all the time. So even if she’s not perfect, and sometimes she unsettles Clarke a little, it’s something good.

She’s pretty sure.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Hales, have you seen my grey bra? The lace one with the racer back?” Clarke asks, digging through her laundry hamper. She hasn’t seen it in days, and it’s the only one that works with her white tank top.

“Uh…” Hayley’s voice drifts in from the kitchen. “No, sorry.”

“Damn,” Clarke mutters under her breath. Great. She’ll have to wear a sports bra.

“Clarke, your phone is ringing.”

Sighing, she gets up and jogs to the kitchen, answering her phone right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Octavia.”

“Oh, hey, O. What’s up?”

“It’s Bellamy.” For the first time, Clarke notices the shake in her friend’s voice. And suddenly it’s like the bottom has dropped out of her stomach.

“What? What about Bellamy? Is he okay?” Her own voice is loud, and harsher than she’d meant.

“Do you remember his friend Jacob Williams?”

“Uh,” Clarke nods, then realizes Octavia can’t see her. “Yeah. They were best friends at McGill. Why?” The second the question leaves her mouth, she knows, and her heart breaks.

“He’s dead. I guess some methhead freaked out on the street, and Jake tried to…” Octavia trails off, breathing heavy. “He died last night, I didn’t find out until this morning, I keep calling Bell, and he’s not answering, and I…have you heard from him?”

“No. I-” She bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood. “I’m sorry. I’ll call him.”

“Okay. And Clarke?”

“Yeah?”

“He-never mind. Just let me know if you get a hold of him.”

“Alright.” She hangs up, then just stares at her phone for a moment. Jacob was Bellamy’s roommate for all of undergrad, the two were inseparable, from the stories she’s heard. They are- _were-_ still close. Clarke’s met him a few times, liked the way he made Bellamy laugh more than anything else about him, but-

Fuck.

She takes a deep breath, then dials his number. He doesn’t answer. She tries two more times, and gets the same result.

“Clarke?”

She jerks around, having forgotten Hayley was there.

“Is everything alright?”

“I…” All Clarke can think about is that she knows exactly what kind of pain Bellamy is probably neck deep in right now. “No. My friend’s friend died.”

Hayley’s face is soft, sad.

“You mean your ex’s friend, right?” She clarifies. “I heard you talking about Bellamy.” She reaches out to lay a hand on Clarke’s arm, but Clarke pulls away.

“We were friends first,” she says firmly. “And I-” Suddenly, she knows exactly what she needs to do. “I’ve got to go.”

“Go?” Hayley blinks, putting down her glass of wine. “Go…where?”

“Um, to Toronto. I’m really sorry, I know this probably seems weird, but he was there for me when Finn died, and I don’t think he’s doing too well,” she can feel it, in this impossible way, like a magnet pulling her East. He needs her.  “And Octavia called me, and she can’t get a hold of him, and I don’t have any appointments at the gallery for like a week, so-”

“Wait,” suddenly there are small hands on Clarke’s shoulders, big blue eyes in her face. “Just hold on a second. You’re going to fly to Toronto to see your ex? Because a guy he went to college with died?”

“He’s not just my ex, he’s my friend. And I think he might need me, so, yes I’m going.” She pulls her suitcase out of the closet, stuffing clothes into it. Remembering something, she fires off a quick text to Octavia.

_No answer. Book me a flight for tonight? I know you know my Visa number._

“Clarke. Do you still have feelings for him?”

She sighs.

“This isn’t like that,” she argues, avoiding the question.

“I don’t…I don’t want you to go.”

“What?” Clarke gapes at her.

“I mean,” Hayley rubs chin irritably. “I don’t think you should go.”

“I think you had it right the first time,” Clarke says quietly. Hayley scowls.

“It’s not _healthy_ , this thing with Bellamy. You need to move on, let him go, stop pining.”

“God, I’m not _pining_ ,” she mutters, continuing to pack. “Look, I’m sorry if this is making you uncomfortable, I understand why it would. But-”

“If you go, we’re done.”

Clarke looks up, sees Hayley standing over her, arms crossed. She gets to her feet, walking around her to the bathroom, grabbing a toothbrush and her contact solution. On the way back she grabs her phone charger out of the wall, and zips her laptop into the top compartment of her bag. Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out to see a reply from Octavia.

**_8:30, Air Canada, ticket in your inbox. I love you, Griffin._ **

Sure enough, an e-mail comes through a few seconds later with her flight information. As an afterthought, she grabs the black dress she wore to Finn’s funeral, folds it carefully on top of the rest of her clothes. Just in case she’s right about him needing her. She zips the case shut, then gets to her feet again. Hayley hasn’t moved, is still standing there, glaring at her.

Clarke wheels past her, grabbing her jacket off the back of a chair.

“Clarke, I’m serious. If you go, this is over.”

She pauses in the doorway, turning back to fix Hayley with a sad frown of her own.

“He’s my _friend_ , Hayley. We were over the minute you asked me not to go.”

As she lets the door shut behind her, Clarke realizes with a pang of guilt that she’s not sorry it’s over at all.


	17. Chapter 17

The cons don’t hit her until she’s 35,000 feet in the air.

One, he has a girlfriend. That’s a pretty big one. How will Kaitlyn feel about Clarke just showing up? Will he even need her if he already has someone there?

Two, he might not want to see her. This trip was impulsive, all based on a gut feeling, but there’s a good chance that’s he’s moved on, _really_ moved on in a way that she hasn’t yet. Maybe she’s not what he needs anymore.

There are more, but those are the ones that sit at the front of her mind as they cruise at altitude, and a few hours later, begin their descent.

It’s incredibly presumptuous, her making this trip. But she’s here now, so all there’s really left to do is show up. If he wants her to go, she will.

She catches a cab at the airport, wishing she’d called an Uber when her driver interrogates her for directions to Bellamy’s address. She lists them, then lists them again, struggling to keep the irritation off her face when the man finally just shrugs and starts driving.

In the wrong direction.

They finally arrive, forty minutes and half a dozen wrong turns later. Clarke pays him the fare he asks for, nearly double what it should have been. He scowls at the tip she leaves him, and she scowls right back. She’s so distracted by the whole ordeal that she’s already at the door, knocking, before she remembers why she’s there.

At first, no one answers. Then, when the door finally swings open, it isn’t Bellamy who stands on the other side, staring at her.

“Eddie?”

He blinks.

“Clarke?”

From inside the house, somewhere, Clarke hear another voice call out; “That’s not funny, man.” Bellamy.

Eddie looks back over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. Then he turns his gaze back to Clarke, obviously confused.

“Um,” She feels awkward with him frowning at her like that, like he has no idea why she would be here, but mostly she’s just relieved it wasn’t Bellamy’s girlfriend who answered the door. “Can I come in?”

As though suddenly realizing they’re both still standing in the doorway, Eddie steps back, letting her in.

“What are you doing here?” He asks quietly, as she tugs her suitcase inside.

“I-Octavia was worried. And _I_ was worried. How’s he doing?”

The musician glances down the hallway.

“Not good. I don’t know what the hell made you come, but-” He lets out a deep sigh, one that sounds a little relieved, and ruffles her hair absently. “Man, you have crazy good timing.”

“What do you mean?” The concern from earlier rises uncomfortably in her chest. Eddie just grabs her by the shoulders, pushing her toward Bellamy’s living room.

“You just kind of have to see it.” They round the corner, and he clears his throat. “Hey, man, you’ve got a visitor.”

Bellamy sighs heavily, and when he turns Clarke can see the beginnings of a beard, the dark shadows under his eyes. He freezes when he spots her, like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s seeing. He blinks a few times, looking a little surprised each time he opens his eyes and she’s still there.

“Clarke?”

“Hey.” She walks over and sits next to him, the old leather couch sinking under her weight. “You look like shit.”

He doesn’t smile, but there’s a flash of something behind his eyes. Something light.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…” She glances over at Eddie, who straightens up from his perch against the wall.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go. If you’ve got this,” he says quietly. She nods, and he disappears down the hallway. When they’re alone, she turns back to Bellamy.

“You didn’t answer my calls.” It’s not an accusation, it’s a question.

“Didn’t feel like talking,” he grunts. She sighs.

“Bellamy, I’m sorry.”

He looks up at that, and there is something so heartbreakingly bruised in his gaze that makes her chest ache. Not broken, just _hurting_.

“He was a good guy.”

“I know.”

“And some tweaker shivved him. Just right there in the street, gutted him like a pig.”

She winces.

“Jesus.”

He gets to his feet, grabbing an empty glass off the coffee table and heading for the kitchen.

“How did you even find out?” He wonders over his shoulder.

“Octavia.”

He frowns.

“I didn’t-”

“Tell her, yeah I know. You should really call her, Bellamy. She’s worried about you.” Clarke doesn’t mean for that to come out like a reprimand, but it does, a little. She knows that if the situation were reversed, Bellamy would be crawling out of his skin waiting for Octavia to call.

He just grunts.

“That why you’re here? O sent you all the way out here just to check on me? Well I’m fine, so it looks like you wasted a trip.”

“I was worried too. I know-” she breaks off. _What it’s like to lose someone you loved. What it’s like to bury those feelings until they come leaking out like acid, burning everyone who touches you. What it’s like to have a bad day._ “I just know.”

He scoffs, then seems to instantly regret it.

“Yeah.” His shoulders slump. “He was just…out of the two of us, he was always the one who had his life together. He was the good one.”

“The…good one?” And then she realizes what he means. “Oh, Bellamy,” she murmurs sadly. “It doesn’t really work like that.”

“It should have been me.” Her heart skips at the mere thought of that, of losing him. And then her mind catches up, remembering that he’s not hers to lose anymore.

“Well, it wasn’t.” There’s no point in arguing with him when he gets like this. After how long she’s known him, Clarke is well aware of that. “When my dad died, my mom told me that the best thing I could ever do for him was live for both of us. Make it count.”

“That’s great,” Bellamy mutters. “But it doesn’t bring them back. It doesn’t change the fact that I had to raise Octavia on my own, or that Amy’s a widow after having been married for less than a year. It doesn’t make what happened to Jake make sense.”

She thinks about that, tracing a circle on the countertop.

“It changed how I see the world, how…how I miss them. It’s the reason I have bad days instead of bad months.” She admits. He snorts.

“Bad days? Is that what you call them?”

“Yeah,” she eyes him carefully. “Why, what do you call them?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t call them anything. I usually don’t remember them.”

And, ah, she knows the feeling. You wake up feeling empty and go to bed feeling nothing but the warm glow of something 80 proof humming under your skin. Suddenly, he rounds on her, anger in his eyes where it wasn’t a second ago.

“Why are you here, Clarke? What are you doing here?”

She blinks.

“I just am.”

They look at each other for a moment, Bellamy slowly deflating, Clarke telling herself that Hayley was _wrong_ , that she hasn’t been pining, she isn’t still hung up on him. Eventually, he sighs, turning to grab a second glass from the cupboard.

“You want a drink?” It’s 9am, but when has that stopped her before?

“Sure.”

He pours two, one for himself, slides one to her, and then there’s really nothing left to do.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he tells her, though there’s no real conviction in it. Mostly, he just sounds tired.

“Maybe.”

“I’m with somebody.”

“I know.”

His eyebrows go up.

“And yet here you are.”

 “I didn’t come here to…get back together,” she says slowly, surprised at how much his comment bothers her. “I just wanted to be around.”

His only response to that is to grunt, downing half the glass of whiskey.

“I guess you’re seeing someone too,” he mumbles, eyes darting up to meet hers. She frowns.

“How do you-”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, Octavia is actually _my_ sister,” he drawls. “She does tell me things every now and then.”

“Right.” Clarke grimaces. “We-” They’re cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. When he doesn’t move to answer it, she clears her throat. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it off the table, and holds it to his ear.

“Hello? Hey, I-Yeah I know. I’m sorry-yeah _I know_. I’m fine. Uh,” He glances toward Clarke. “Hold on.” His finger taps at the screen, and suddenly Octavia’s voice fills the room.

“Clarke?”

Clarke blinks.

“Yeah, hey.”

“God, have you ever heard of answering your phone? First I have to worry about this idiot,” It’s obvious she’s referring to Bellamy, “And now you? Or is there some kind of dysfunction where the entire Toronto area just doesn’t get reception, because-”

“I’m sorry.” Clarke interrupts her, because when Octavia gets on a rant, it tends to run long. That appears to be a Blake family trait. “I must have left my phone on airplane mode.” She pulls it out of her bag, and sure enough, the airplane symbol glows back at her. When she switches it off, a notification for sixteen missed calls pops up. “Are you serious? You called me sixteen times?”

“No? I called you twice.”

Frowning, Clarke swipes through her call logs. Octavia’s telling the truth, there are only two from her. Two are from Hayley. The remaining twelve are all from the same number, one she doesn’t recognize.

“Oh, right. Well I’m here. My phone’s on now, Bellamy is still alive,” she informs Octavia, then winces at her poor choice of words. “We’re-” she almost says good. “-managing.”

“Fine. But call me later. Turn your ringer on. And take care of my brother.”

Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Yes, mom.”

“Love you.”

Clarke and Bellamy parrot the words back to her in unison, then she’s gone.

“Remember when you were afraid she wouldn’t call you anymore after she got married?” Clarke asks. Bellamy laughs, a full on rumble that starts in his chest and is both familiar and surprising.

“Yeah. I should be so lucky.”

“She just loves you.”

He glances at her, eyes narrowing.

“Sometimes I think she loves you more, which is kind of unfair, considering we’re actually related.”

Grinning, Clarke shrugs.

“I’m easy to love.”

The noise he makes sounds a little like choking. She scowls at him.

“Okay, easy, Blake.”

He puts his hands up innocently.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Mhmm.” She eyes him warily. “Have you eaten anything?”

“I had some cereal a couple hours ago.” It’s barely nine in the morning, and she has a feeling this bowl of cereal happened some time before the sun came up.

“Have you slept?”

He groans.

“Clarke.”

“Look, if you want to wallow, that’s fine. If you need time to just be a trainwreck and hate everything and be drunk, that’s fine. But people love you, so you have to take care of yourself too, just a little bit. Just enough that when you finally wake up and find yourself actually wanting to get out of bed, you aren’t dying of alcohol poisoning or half starved to death.”

Bellamy just groans again.

“I’m not even that drunk.”

“Well,” she points out, “you’re doing alright, considering it’s 9am.”

“Why don’t I remember you being this annoying before?” he wonders.

“You were getting sex before,” she reminds him, and he just kind of nods like that is, in fact, the only thing that’s changed. A little more gently, “Bellamy. Have you slept?”

He jerks his head to the side, and she takes that to be a no.

“Do you think you could?”

There’s silence for a moment, then-

“I dunno.”

“Do you want to try?”

He looks over at her, and she sees it for the first time, the new ghost in his eyes, brighter than all the rest.

“I’m going to dream about him, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” she answers, heart breaking for him.

“Nightmares?”

“Maybe.”

“Perfect.” He lifts himself off the chair, leaving his glass empty on the counter. She gets up too, grabs her jacket. He tracks that movement carefully, brows drawing together. “Where are you going?”

“Uh,” she frowns. “The Fairmont.” That takes a moment to register.

“Oh.” He looks surprised, and she knows this is new for them, she’s never stayed here and not _stayed here_ before. “A hotel.”

“It’s not like I can stay here, Bellamy.”

“Right, because…”

“Because it would be weird. And I don’t want to intrude.” She keeps expecting Kaitlyn to walk through the door, and it’s starting to make her question if she really should have come. Bellamy looks amused.

“You have a bizarre sense of manners, you know that? You show up here, uninvited, boss me around, but you don’t want to _intrude_.”

“Go shower,” she flaps her hand at him. “And then try to get some sleep. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll just show up and boss you around some more. Go.” He does, with a heavy sigh, and an irritable glare, but he looks like he needs it. When he’s gone, she looks around. Bellamy isn’t a messy guy, per se, but the place is…actually it’s a wreck. She finds herself thinking that there’s no way he could have done this kind of damage in two days, and it’s only been that long since Jake’s been gone. She sets her jacket back down with a sigh and begins to tidy up.

.-.-.-.-.

She’s sitting in her hotel room when the text comes in. It’s been almost seven hours since she left Bellamy’s, and she’s hoping that he’s actually slept, but she knows sleep won’t come easy, not now.

_Did you clean my house while I was sleeping?_

She sighs.

**_No._ **

It only takes a few seconds for the reply to come in.

_But it’s clean._

**_Well, maybe someone broke in, and was so horrified by the state of it that they took pity on you and put some dirty dishes away._ **

A few seconds pass, and then a minute, and she suddenly remembers that they don’t do this anymore. She’s not sure if it’s flirting, or just friendly banter, it feels the same as it always does to her. But it’s not. Then her phone buzzes in her hand.

_You’re right, my mistake. That is clearly the more logical and obvious explanation._

She grins.

**_Did you sleep?_ **

_A little._

**_You hungry?_ **

He takes longer to reply to that, and she chews at a hangnail on her thumb.

_Going to dinner with Kait in a bit._

The reminder of his new life hits like a fist to the stomach, and Clarke once again scolds herself for forgetting. This is _hard_.

**_Good. I’ll be in town for a couple days-gallery stuff. In case you need something._ **

_Yeah, right. I’m fine. Go home._

Suddenly, her head feels fuzzy, cheeks warm. Should she? Who _was_ she to assume he needed her here? It’s been half a year since they broke up, he’s obviously moved on. Without thinking, she dials a number, lifting her phone to her face.

“Hello?”

“What am I _doing_ here?” Clarke hisses, her nails digging into the palm of her hand as it curls into a tight fist.

“What are you talking about?” Octavia asks, sounding confused.

“Why the hell did I come here? I could have just called. I’m like the psycho stalker ex. God, maybe Hayley was right.”

“Okay, first of all, you did call. He didn’t answer.”

“Okay, but-”

“Second, no offense, but whatever your girlfriend said about Bell was probably kind of biased. Girl is mad insecure.”

“We-”

“And most importantly,” Octavia says, interrupting her again. “You’re there because he needs you, and you love him.”

“He doesn’t,” Clarke murmurs, sickened that she’s saddened by that. She should _want_ him to have someone else. But all she feels is left behind. “It’s like I just assumed that because I’m still-that I could just show up and it would be like nothing had changed. Which is fucking stupid.”

 **“** Then come home.”

“I…” She thinks about that. Is there any point staying for a few more days if all she’s going to do is sit around and wait for him to maybe, probably not, call her?

“See? You want to stay. Because you know I’m right.”

“I know you’re _annoying_ ,” Clarke mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Hey, you called me.”

“Octavia, should I be here?”

“Clarke, I can’t answer that.”

Frustrated, she groans.

“Hayley and I broke up.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t surprised,” Clarke says accusingly. Octavia just makes a noncommittal noise.

“Well, she was kind of, I don’t know. Not your type, I guess.”

Ignoring the fact that both of her best friends apparently realized that long before she did, Clarke flops back onto her bed.

“Why? Because she wasn’t your brother?”

“That’s not what I meant. But it’s interesting that you bring that up.”

“O, this is hard.”

“I know,” her friend hums sympathetically. “But you care. It’s kind of your thing.”

Clarke sighs.

“I hate my thing.”

“Look, you have to take care of yourself first.” Octavia says, a little more firmly. “That’s what you always tell me, and I’m sure you’ve said something similar to Bell in the past few hours. So if you can’t deal with being there, come home. I won’t judge you.”

“I think I’d judge me.”

“Then stay.”

“This conversation has kind of become pointless,” Clarke points out. Octavia snorts.

“Then I think I’ve gotta go. Lincoln’s family is here, and his nephews are trying to put facepaint on the dog.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you,” Octavia tells her. “Bye.”

And then it’s just Clarke again, the cold air of the hotel air conditioning reminding her of the last time she was sitting on a hotel bed and trying to convince herself that it was finally time to put Bellamy Blake in her rearview mirror.

It takes six hours to convince herself to leave. It feels remarkably like running away as she takes the suitcase that she never unpacked and wheels it up the Uber waiting at the curb. It’s _self-preservation_ , she reminds herself. And sometimes, that is the best you can do.

They’re halfway to the airport when her phone rings. At first, she assumes it’s the same number that’s been calling her all day, an unlisted number that always disconnects as soon as she answers, one that hasn’t turned up any results after a couple curious google searches. But when she flips her phone on her lap, it’s Bellamy’s name on the screen.

“Bellamy?”

“Hey,” he says gruffly, sounding surly and more than a little drunk.

“Are you okay?”

“I, uh, could use your help with something.” Definitely drunk. His words are slurring together, slow and clumsy.

She should tell him she’s already almost at the airport, that she has to leave, that she needs to stop pretending that she can have him back anytime she wants. She broke up with him. She needs to act like this is the life that _she_ chose. This is what she wanted.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She hangs up, hating herself and feeling perversely validated in equal measure. “Sorry,” she murmurs, leaning forward to address the driver. “change of plans.”


	18. Chapter 18

He doesn’t answer the door. She knocks, and knocks, and it’s almost midnight so the neighbours start to get a little testy about all the banging, so she finally just tries the door. It’s open.

“Bell?” No answer. It strikes her that Kaitlyn could very well be here, and probably won’t be happy to see her. But she’d asked Bellamy to call if he needed anything, and he had, so she just keeps walking. He’s not in the kitchen, or the living room, or his office. Anxiety beginning to creep in, she makes her way to the bedroom.

 _Please don’t be in bed with your girlfriend,_ she thinks, rounding the corner. He’s easy enough to spot, laying on his once-white duvet, beside a worryingly large splotch of crimson.

“Bellamy?” She hurries over, and he looks up, eyes glassy. “Oh, what did you do?” Her gaze runs over him, bare chest and black boxers, every inch of exposed, tanned skin. But she can’t tell where the blood has come from. He blinks at her.

“Hey. I think I might need stitches,” he tells her morosely, the kind of resigned way you might inform someone that they’ve just missed the bus. Her hands twitch.

“ _Where_?”

He wiggles a little, making a pained noise, and she realizes he’s trying to sit. Grabbing his forearms, she tugs him up. The way the blanket sticks to his back is her first clue to where he’s actually hurt.

“Okay just-” he tries to stand, and she puts her hands firmly on his shoulders, holding him down. “- _hang on_ , Bellamy. Sit still.” She walks around the the other side of the bed, and stops dead. “What the fuck?” The upper half of his back is crossed with fairly deep red gashes, bits of glass still stuck in some of them. Thin rivers of fresh and dried crimson paint the rest of his skin, pooling a little under him where he sits.

“I fell.”

“You…fell?”

“Inna the…cupboard.”

“Wh-” For a moment she has no idea what she’s talking about. Then she remembers the glass front cabinet that he has in the living room, the one he keeps some of the artifacts he collects in. It had been so dark when she came in that she didn’t notice it, but she’s guessing upon that closer inspection the entire glass panel will have been shattered. Half of it seems to be embedded in Bellamy’s back. “Oh. Okay, I’m gonna turn the lamp on, don’t move.” She reaches behind her, flicking on the lamp and swiveling it so the beam is a spotlight on his injuries. They definitely look worse in the light, but she can tell it’s mostly superficial. As she begins to run her fingers very gently around the lacerations, he squirms.

“Ouch.”

Her lips twitch. He’s never been a very good patient, and that combined with the fact that he’s practically wasted has apparently turned him into a four year old.

“I can clean this up, but it’s going to hurt. If we go to the hospital they’ll probably give you something for the pain.”

“No.” His turns, hand snaking out to grab her wrist. “No hospital.”

“Bellamy,” she sighs. “I don’t really want to pull all this glass out, and probably give you stitches, without at least some local anaesthetic.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he repeats, eyes half lidded, but somehow still fierce. She hesitates. There’s a medical bag in her suitcase, she brings it every time she flies, just in case. It’s a habit she learned from her mother. Her options are to clean him up here, the best she can, or to force him into the car, drive him to the hospital against his will, and deal with him complaining while they sit in the ER for several hours.

“Fine.” She throws her hands in the air. “Don’t move,” she mutters, again, pointing at him sternly. He pokes himself in the chest, in what she suspects was supposed to be the hand gesture for _scout’s honor_ , and she pads back out to the foyer, where she left her bag. As she wheels it back, her eyes fall on the cabinet in the corner of the living room. It is indeed wrecked, jagged spires of glass framing a gaping hole in the front panel, smudges of scarlet all over. She’ll have to clean it up later, see if any of Bellamy’s prized artifacts were ruined. Making a quick detour to the kitchen, she grabs a glass mixing bowl.

Back in the bedroom, Bellamy glances up at her suspiciously.

“How’d you know?”

“Huh?” Walking around to face his back, she leans him slightly forward, and grabs a wad of gauze and some antiseptic from her bag.

“You brought the-” he waves his hand vaguely, but she knows he means her medical bag. “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t,” she murmurs, sterilizing her tweezers and eyeing him nervously. The alcohol might dull the pain a little, but this is going to be unpleasant for both of them. “I always keep one in my suitcase when I’m flying, in case something happens on the plane.”

“Oh.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Why’d you have your suitcase?”

“I…” Shit. She’d just assumed he’d be too drunk to pick up on that. “I was on my way to the airport. I’m going to start taking the glass out. If it starts to hurt too much, just let me know, and we can go to the hospital.”

“ _No_ hospitals,” he mutters. She rolls her eyes.

“I’ll check in on how you feel about that in thirty seconds,” she tells him, raising her tweezers and grabbing the first shard. He groans, a low whining sound, and she bites her lip. As carefully as she can, she eases it out and drops it into the glass bowl beside her. “Still no hospital?”

“Just get it over with,” he grunts. She shrugs, moving on to the next piece.

It takes almost forty minutes to get all of them, forty minutes of Bellamy swearing, and Clarke yelling at him to stay still, and the occasional death threat, but when the last shard of glass clinks against the others, Clarke can feel her own shoulders slumping in relief.

Bellamy seems to sense her change in pace, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Done?” He looks so hopeful, eyes lidded heavily, exhausted from the pain and the long day.

“Getting there,” she tells him sympathetically. “I’ve got to disinfect these, and then two of them are going to need stitches.”

He sighs, defeated, but turns back around to let her work.

“Where’s Kaitlyn?” She asks as she pokes the needle through his skin, hoping to distract him. A vein in the back of his neck stands out as he tenses against the pain. When he answers her, she can hear the strain in his voice.

“Iunno. Home.”

Clarke frowns, wanting to know more, but also not. The thread tugs through his skin, a hiss escaping from his lips and she makes a soft noise, like something to soothe a startled dog, and he quiets down. Compared to removing the glass, this part is done quickly, and then it’s time to sterilize and bandage him up.

“This is going to sting.”

“It’s been stinging for the past hour and a half,” he grumbles, sounding sleepy. With a deep breath, she swipes the alcohol soaked pad across a cluster of smaller cuts, and his back straightens like a whip, something resembling a snarl grinding out of his throat.

“I told you.”

“I hate you.”

“I know,” she pats him patiently on the shoulder and moves on to the rest of his injuries, at one point having to physically hold him down. “Bellamy _hold still_ -”

“You’re just doing this because you’re mad at me!” He mumbles, voice muffled into the comforter due to her knee pressing on the back of his neck. He’s laid out flat on his bed now, on his stomach, Clarke pinning him to the mattress as she finishes dressing his cuts.

“What are you talking about?” She’s a little out of breath, due to the effort it takes to subdue someone twice her size, but she presses the last piece of gauze into place with a feeling of victory, and relief.

“It’s like…payback,” he tells the blanket. She climbs off of him, realizing that the blood that had soaked into his bedding is now probably smeared across his stomach. A shower is out of the question, after all the work she just put into getting him bandaged.

“Can you stand?” She asks, and he rolls onto his side, scowling.

“Of course I can stand.”

“Well, do it then.”

He does, though not without a few seconds of struggling. Once on his feet, he sways a little, ducking away from her hand when she reaches out to steady him.

“Come on,” she guides him out into the hallway.

“Where are we going?”

“To clean you up.”

“You just did that.”

“To clean up your front.”

“Why would you-” he looks down, eyes widening at the mosaic of blood there. “Oh.”

Clarke flips on the bathroom light, setting him down on the toilet.

“Yeah, oh.” She grabs a face cloth from under the sink and wets it. Then she hesitates. He could probably do this himself, though she doubts he’ll be coordinated enough to do a good job. There’s something about the idea of giving your ex a sponge bath that seems almost universally inappropriate. Then again, the more quickly she gets Bellamy and his bed cleaned up, the sooner they can both get some much needed sleep. Making a decision, she kneels in front of him, beginning to dab at his chest with the cloth.

After a minute or so she looks up, and finds him watching her sleepily. As she continues to wipe the cloth across his skin, she can’t deny that it’s strangely intimate. Especially considering he won’t take his eyes off her face.

“Stop that,” she mutters, rinsing the cloth out in the sink. The water runs pink, then clear, so she rings it out and starts back in on Bellamy.

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me.”

“So bossy,” he sighs, still watching her. She finishes cleaning his chest.

“Show me your hands,” she commands him, because she’d be the first to agree with him on that one. He does, suspiciously, and she runs her eyes along the very minor scrapes there, probably gotten from steadying himself as he fell. She flips them over, inspecting his palms, which are also a little scratched up, but no worse for the wear. She cleans the blood off those as well, then pats them dry with a towel. “Alright,” she slaps him lightly on the thigh. “You’re blood free.”

“To bed,” he declares, getting to his feet and starting down the hallway. Clarke catches his arm.

“To the couch,” she corrects, his confused blinking makes her lips twitch. “Until I’ve changed your blankets.”

With a shrug, he heads back into the living room, disappearing around the corner.

“And don’t go near the cabinet until I’ve cleaned it up!” She shouts after him. A muffled grunt comes from somewhere down the hall, which she takes to be agreement.

His bedroom looks a little like a murder scene. He didn’t actually lose that much blood, most of his cuts were superficial, but in his drunken state he somehow managed to smear it into the biggest mess possible. With a deep sigh, she strips off the duvet cover, sheets, and mattress cover. The blood doesn’t seem to have soaked into the mattress itself, save for a few spots that she scrubs with stain remover, so she throws the dirty bedding in the laundry and remakes the bed with new sheets.

By the time she heads back out to find Bellamy, he’s drifted off on the couch, head in his hand, snoring softly. It occurs to her to leave him there and let him sleep, but her memories of past nights where he ended up sleeping on the couch all ended with his very sore neck. So she places a hand on his shoulder, shaking gently.

“Bellamy. Wake up.”

He does, with a snort, eyes widening when he sees her.

“Clarke? You’re still here?”

“Unfortunately. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

He gets to his feet, staggering a little, his arm automatically falling over her shoulders to steady himself as they walk.

“S’like déjà vu, huh?”

“Hmm?” She glances over at him.

“You, me, stitches.”

Fighting the fatigue that’s settled like fog over her brain, Clarke searches for meaning in his words. Then she remembers.

“Oh.” Her lips curl in a soft smile. “Back when you first came to stay with me.” Her gaze flicks to his forehead, to the small scar still visible there.

“Yeah.”

“You’re just an accident prone guy, I guess.”

He shakes his head clumsily, hair falling into his face.

“Nah, it’s you.”

“Me? How is it my fault?”

“Not your _fault_ ,” he mumbles, apparently frustrated by her inability to follow his drunken train of thought. “You’re just always here, cleaning me up. Taking care of me. It’s usually the other…the way…around.” He sighs. “You’re the first person who’s ever done that for me.”

“Oh.” They round the corner to his bedroom, and she guides him gently onto the bed. The sheets were already pulled back, so he just crawls under them, eyes shut. “All good?”

Bellamy throws her a thumbs up, and Clarke returns it tiredly.

“Alright. Goodnight, Bellamy.”

As she begins to leave, one of his eyes opens.

“Where you going?”

Déjà vu, indeed.

“You’re not the only mess in this house that needs to be cleaned up,” she tells him. He frowns.

“Come to bed.”

“To…” Her eyebrows fly up. She can tell by his voice that he’s already halfway passed out, so instead of arguing with him, she nods. “Okay. I will in a minute.”

Appeased, he rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow. He’ll be hurting in the morning, in more ways than one, but Clarke wasn’t lying when she said she needed to clean up before crashing for the night. She’s already exhausted, but forces herself back out into the living room, flicking on the over head lights to inspect the damage he’s done to his cabinet.

One door will need to be replaced, the window panel essentially decimated, and there’s a layer of broken glass covering everything within a five foot radius. It would be easiest to just vacuum the shards, but having finally gotten Bellamy down and out of her hair, Clarke decides to grab a broom and begins sweeping by hand.

Once the sharp pieces are disposed of, she wipes the bloody smudges off what remains of the glass door. None of the items inside seem to be damaged, which Bellamy will be grateful for when he wakes up.

Needing a moment, she collapses onto the couch. She’ll grab her suitcase and head to the airport as soon as she gets her second wind. She’d called on the way here to change her ticket to an open voucher, so she’ll almost definitely be put on standby when she arrives. Bellamy probably won’t even remember most of tonight in the morning, and all the past few hours have really done is reinforce the fact that she can’t be around him without her old feelings coming slamming back. She still needs to go.

But when she opens her eyes again, it’s light out. And an unpleasantly familiar face is hovering in front of her, eyebrows drawn angrily together. Clarke blinks at the blonde, mouth dry.

“Oh,” she murmurs, voice rough sleep, heart sinking in her chest. “Hey, Kaitlyn.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm sorry for the long delay, it's been kind of a stressful few weeks. I tried to make it a little longer, hope you like it. Comments are always appreciated :)

Clarke sits up, blinking as her head spins. When the room settles, she gets a better look at the woman in front of her. They’ve met a couple times, at the work dinners and parties that fell on her weekend visits to Bellamy’s end of the country. She looks perfect, as always, long blonde hair falling neatly to her waist, big green eyes slightly wide in confusion. And in contrast, Clarke can feel her makeup smudged under her lashes, hair thrown into a tangled knot on the top of her head.

Not that it’s a competition.

“Clarke, what are you doing here?” Kaitlyn asks, shifting her weight onto her back foot. She doesn’t look angry, or suspicious for that matter, just a little lost. Clarke rubs her eyes, ignoring the black streak that ends up on the back of her hand.

“Bellamy had an accident.” She gestures at the broken cabinet in the corner of the room. The blood is gone, as are the broken shards, but the door is still clearly missing most of it’s glass. Kaitlyn stares at it, then turns back to her. “He got a little scraped up, didn’t want to go to the hospital. So he called me.”

“And you…flew in?” The actress scrunches up her nose in confusion.

“Uh, no.” Clarke pushes off the couch, standing awkwardly next to her. “I flew in yesterday, did you not-” she’s going to ask if Bellamy told her, but the look on Kaitlyn’s face is answer enough, and there’s no point in rubbing it in. “Um, I was already here.”

“Right. Bellamy didn’t…” Kaitlyn breaks off with a sigh. “Is he alright? What happened?”

“He was pretty drunk, I guess. He fell into the cabinet and broke the glass, cut up his back a little. He needed a couple stitches, but he’ll be fine.” She thinks of her decision not to give him painkillers last night because of how much alcohol was in his system. “Grumpy and sore, probably, but fine.”

At that, Kaitlyn, lets out a little sigh of relief, glancing toward the bedroom.

“That’s good. He’s been-well, I don’t know how he’s been. He won’t talk to me about it.” Kaitlyn says softly, looking back at Clarke. “I guess you know about Jake.”

Clarke just nods.

“You know Bellamy,” she replies with a shrug. “He doesn’t like to be the one who needs anyone.” But he does. He needs someone.

“Yeah.” Kaitlyn rubs a tired hand across her face. Clarke suppresses the urge to ask what happened the night before, if Bellamy had been wasted at dinner or if that was something he’d accomplished all by himself after he got home. But it’s not her place, so she doesn’t. “I told him I wasn’t going to be here for the funeral last night. That’s probably why, you know-”

She gestures vaguely, but she’s clearly referring to Bellamy’s belligerent drunkenness.

“You-oh.” Clarke blinks. She doesn’t ask why, but it turns out she doesn’t have to.

“My, um, my dad is sick.” Kaitlyn offers, and Clarke wonders why she’s sharing that, why she feels the need to explain herself at all. “They think he might not make it through the week, so.”

“So you’re going to be with him,” Clarke realizes. Her face softens. “I get it, trust me.”

Kaitlyn just rubs her arm absently.

“It’s the worst timing,” she murmurs, and she laughs hollowly. “I mean, as if there’s a good time, but-like you said. Bellamy needs me.”

That’s not _exactly_ what Clarke said, but she lets it slide.

“He won’t hold it against you.” She promises, knowing it’s true. Once he comes out of this fog of grief, Bellamy will understand her choice.

“I was there,” Kaitlyn continues, as though Clarke hadn’t spoken. “At the hospital. Bellamy sat there for _hours,_ like a zombie, just…so _still_. It’s like he wasn’t even breathing. And then the doctor came out, and we all knew, I think most of us had known since we got there. And Bellamy just kind of nodded, and then he got up, and he left.”

 _No hospital_. Bellamy’s words from the night before, his insistence that they not go near a hospital, they suddenly hit her. A wave of sadness follows. She can be so dense sometimes.

“That sounds awful.” Clarke offers, not sure what to say, not really sure that Kaitlyn can even hear her. “But I’m sure he was glad you were there. He appreciates stuff like that.”

His girlfriend makes a sound like a cross between a snort and a sigh.

“And now I’m abandoning him in his hour of need,” she murmurs. As though suddenly remembering who exactly she’s talking to, Kaitlyn straightens up, face pulling into a neutral mask. It’s one of the reasons Clarke hates being around actors so much. They’re infuriatingly good at hiding their emotions, when they want to. “Anyways, thanks for taking care of him. I guess he was too mad at me to call.”

Clarke is being dismissed, which, she decides, is entirely fair.

“Not mad,” she argues, grabbing her jacket off the top of the couch, and walking over to fetch her suitcase from the hallway outside Bellamy’s bedroom. “I think he just really didn’t want to go to the hospital.” She doesn’t mention his pleas, but Kaitlyn’s face saddens in understanding.

“Right. Well, it was good to see you, despite the circumstances.” Kaitlyn says, and Clarke actually thinks she’s being sincere. If she was a little pettier, she’d be annoyed at how hard the actress is to dislike.

“You too,” Clarke gives her a wry smile, then heads for the door. In the foyer, she pauses, turning back. “Kaitlyn?” The other blonde, who’d been making her way to the bedroom, glances back. “I’m really sorry about your dad.”

For a moment, the two women just look at each other, and the honesty in it leaves them both a little raw. Kaitlyn knows, about Clarke. And Clarke knows Kaitlyn’s pain, almost exactly. They’re more alike than either would be pleased to admit. But for a second, it’s there. Then the actress nods, and her eyes are shining, so Clarke does the decent thing.

She pretends she doesn’t notice, and she leaves.

.-.-.-.-.-.

On the sidewalk right outside, Clarke almost runs right into someone. She’s about to apologize, and then she looks up and recognizes Eddie.

“Oh.” She blinks at him. “It’s you.”

“I feel like I should really get to be the one who acts surprised to see you,” he tells her, his hand on her elbow where he’d caught her as she almost fell. She rolls her eyes.

“You knew I was here,” she reminds him. He shrugs.

“I didn’t know you were _still_ here.” There’s something in his tone that annoys her, maybe because it hits a little too close to home, so she frowns at him, realizing she should probably have called an Uber already. She pulls out her phone, dismissing the notification for another eight missed calls, and pulls up the app. He watches over her shoulder. “Where you goin?”

“The airport.”

He makes a noise of surprise, and she looks up at him curiously.

“You’re leaving?” Why does everything he says sound like an accusation?

“I’m going home.”

“Why?”

She sighs in annoyance.

“Because I _live_ there.”

Suddenly, he plucks her phone out of her hand.

“Eddie-” She groans, exhausted of him, and in general.

“Are you hungry?”

She is, actually. But he’s eyeing her intensely, and because it’s him, she’s naturally suspicious of any invitations. As though reading her mind, his smile widens.

“Come on, it’s just breakfast. You look like you could use some perking up.”

Ignoring the fact that he just insulted her, she sighs.

“Yeah, okay. I could eat.”

Beaming, he throws an arm over her shoulders.

“Excellent. I know a place where they serve prairie fires with the egg special.”

Clarke makes a face, already regretting accepting his invitation.

.-.-.-.-.

“I’m not getting that,” she warns Eddie, as he tries to order two specials. Turning to the waitress, she speaks over him. “Can I just get pancakes, please?” The brunette nods, then disappears. From across the table, Eddie watches her disapprovingly.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m _tired_ ,” she mutters, and in that moment she feels it so heavily that she almost puts her head down on the table right there. “If I drink now I’m not going to be awake to catch my flight. And prairie fires are disgusting, anyways,” she adds, grimacing.

“They wake me up,” he says with a shrug, as though whiskey and Tabasco are a perfectly acceptable substitute for coffee, which is what Clarke, a normal human being, has ordered.

“So, what’s the agenda?”

Eddie blinks at her.

“Come on, I know you well enough to know that you want something. Just get on with it.”

He looks a little surprised for a moment, something like grudging approval flashing over his features for half a second, then it’s gone. He leans forward.

“Are you and Bellamy, you know. Back on?”

She stares at him.

“No.” Something about the question feels like a bruising finger poking accusingly into her sternum. “God, of course not.”

“Don’t ‘of course not’, me.” He retorts, smiling up at their waitress when she drops a coffee in front of Clarke, and a highball glass in front of him. “You flew all the way out here to comfort him, and then stayed overnight at his place.”

“I didn’t mean to stay overnight,” she says wearily. “It took forever to clean him up, and then clean his place up. I just passed out.”

His eyebrows draw together, and she explains what happened the night before, including her awkward run-in with Kaitlyn that morning.

“I didn’t know that,” he says thoughtfully, ten minutes later, swirling the remaining bit of whiskey in his glass. “That Kaitlyn wasn’t going to the funeral.”

She shrugs, chewing. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they showed up in front of her, hot and covered in syrup.

“It sounds like she didn’t even really know until yesterday.”

He nods.

“Are you going?” She wonders suddenly.

“Yeah.” He stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “I mean, it _does_ start at the ungodly hour of ten in the morning, but I figure, given the circumstances, I can probably manage it.”

He’s deflecting, but she sees through it. He cares about Bellamy, a lot. Clarke had wondered, when Bellamy had brought him to the wedding, how close they could be if she’d never met him. But they’re obviously more than drinking buddies. And she finds herself happier for it. He can’t replace Jake, that’s not how this works. But Bellamy has someone, at least. Someone she knows is looking out for him.

“I’m glad he has you,” she decides out loud, and he looks up at her, mouth hanging open. It affords her an unappealing view of his half chewed breakfast. “Okay, ew. Chew with your mouth closed.”

He snaps his jaw shut, narrowing his eyes at her.

“We were having a nice moment,” he complains, chewing as loudly as he can. “And you ruined it.”

“ _I_ ruined i-” She stops herself. “It’s tomorrow, right?”

“The service? Yeah. I guess you’ll be back in good ol’ Raincouver by then.”

“Yeah.” She says quietly, suddenly not hungry at all. “I guess.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

The next morning, at eight-thirty, she texts Eddie.

**_I could use a ride._ **

His only response is the kiss emoji. She’s not entirely sure what it means, but feels fairly confident it’s a yes.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He calls her an hour later.

“I’m on my way. Fairmont, right?”

She doesn’t ask how he knows that, just confirms it.

“Alright, meet me out front in ten minutes.”

She does, in the black dress she’s definitely going to have to get rid of after this, it’s always just going to be a funeral dress. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, because it always gets out of control in weather like this.

Toronto is humid, almost always, and this morning it’s decided to spritz them all with a misting of rain, so she’s been standing outside for all of three minutes and she already feels uncomfortably moist. An ostentatiously sleek sports car pulls up in the pick up lane, and she doesn’t even have to look inside to know it’s Eddie. She slides into the passenger’s seat, noting that it’s one of those coup models with only two seats.

“Is Bellamy not going with you?” She asks in surprise, buckling herself in.

“No, Jake’s brother picked him up. He-” Something in his voice is heavier than usual. “He’s going to be a pallbearer.”

“Oh.” Clarke turns that thought over in her mind, hating it. She hates this day, hates this city. She’s suddenly and inexplicably furious at everything and everyone. Her eyes travel over to take in Eddie’s outfit as they pull out onto the freeway. It’s more subdued than his usual attire, a black suit with a grey tie. “You look nice.” She hears herself say.

She’s not sure who between the two of them looks more surprised at the compliment. Eventually he just shrugs.

“So do you. You do the whole _buttoned-up and proper_ thing well, which is of absolutely zero surprise to me.”

She rolls her eyes.

.-.-.-.-.

When they get there, Eddie pulls a large black umbrella out of nowhere, and holds it over their heads as they make their way to the front door. A woman stops them there, handing them programs. Jake’s face smiling up at them.

“He was a good man, our Jake.” She says, lips tight, eyes glassy. Eddie nods, extends his sympathies, and makes to move inside. Clarke, however, is frozen to the spot. He tugs on her arm, gently, but she can’t move. Frowning, he gives her a good yank, and this time she stumbles in after him.

“What the hell was that?” He asks, pulling her away from the stream of people heading into the other room. She stares up at him, eyes wide.

“I just-” her voice is shrill, and shaky, and doesn’t really sound like her at all. “I realized-”

 _Jake was a good man._ She’s heard that, before. At a funeral, before. And she’s about to sit through a good two hours of it.

Again.

And she’s not totally sure she can.

She opens her mouth to explain, but then she hears her name.

“Clarke?” It’s Jake’s brother, Aidan. They’ve only met twice, at Jake’s wedding and a later family barbecue, she’s honestly surprised he remembers her. But someone else turns at the mention of her name as well. Bellamy, from a few feet away, glances over at them, doing a double take when he sees her.

“Aidan, hi.” She forces her voice to even out. This isn’t about her. She’s had her time to grieve. The people here are drowning in fresh grief, the kind that bleeds and buries people. She has to get over herself. If she really needs to, she can fall apart later. “I’m so sorry,” her voice is so low it’s almost a whisper, but he just nods, eyes deep with sorrow.

“Thanks. I didn’t know you and Bellamy were still together.”

Bellamy, already halfway toward them, raises his eyebrows at Clarke behind the man’s back.

“We’re not.” Clarke says, not even bothering to feel awkward. Aidan doesn’t care, no one cares. Not today. “But I was in town already, and I wanted to pay my respects, I hope that’s okay.”

The elder Williams smiles sadly.

“Yeah, of course. Thanks for coming.”

She squeezes his arm gently, at the same time a hand appears on her own arm, tugging her away.

“What are you doing here?” Bellamy asks, dragging her into a corner. She looks around for Eddie, but she doesn’t see him anywhere.

“Kaitlyn told me she couldn’t be here, and I thought you might want me to come.” She can’t read his face. “Do you want me to leave?” It’s an entirely honest question. If he says yes, she’ll go, no hard feelings.

He stares at her for a moment.

“I’ve got Eddie,” he says, but it’s not a yes or a no.

“I know,” she tells him. “He was my ride.”

He blinks at that.

“I wasn’t sure if Eddie was really the hand holding type,” she adds dryly. The corner of his mouth twitches, ever so slightly.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Thanks.”

He sits up front during the ceremony, with the other pallbearers, Clarke and Eddie sit behind him.

It’s not a religious affair, none of the Williams are particularly devout, and Jake would have hated that anyways, so mostly there are anecdotes about him and his life. Bellamy tells one that makes almost everyone cry. He’s always been good at speeches.

By the thirtieth time she hears the name Jake mixed in with some sentiment about how loved he was, how missed he’ll be, she thinks she might lose her mind. She has one hand resting gently on Bellamy’s shoulder, it’s the only contact she can really manage sitting in the row behind him, but the other is curled into a fist on her lap, knuckles entirely white, nails cutting painfully into her palm. Eddie looks at her questioningly a few times, but doesn’t say anything. When it’s time to go outside, to bury him, everyone stands, and the quiet is broken.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, leaning in so she can hear him.

“Yeah,” she says automatically. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re really pale. And-” His brows draw together as he looks down at her palm. Now that it’s finally uncurled, she realizes it feels sticky. She glances down, and sighs when she sees the smears of red oozing from the crescent shaped marks. “That doesn’t look good.”

“It’s fine,” she mutters, pulling a wet wipe out of her bag and cleaning the blood away. She drops the tissue in a trash can as they walk outside surprised to see the rain has stopped.

They can’t walk with Bellamy, due to the fact that he’s carrying the casket, so they walk together instead, a few paces away from everyone. The grass is still wet, and it seeps in through the open tops of her shoes.

“Is it the ex?” Eddie asks, suddenly. She frowns in confusion, thinking he means Bellamy. He seems to realize his mistake, clarifying. “Bellamy told me your ex-fiance died. Is this just reminding you of that?”

Surprised that he knows that, surprised that he _remembered_ , Clarke shakes her head, eyes forward.

“No, it’s not Finn.” Every once in a while, when she’s talking, she catches herself sounding _old_. As though some weary eighty year-old has taken over her body. “My dad died three years ago. His name was Jake, and I just never really thought about what it would feel like to be here, hearing everyone say his name, and cry, and…miss him.” She can feel Eddie’s eyes on her. After a moment or two, he whistles quietly.

“This is _killing_ you,” he realizes. She winces.

“No, I’m-” She doesn’t even have it in her to lie. She just shrugs tiredly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here for Bellamy.”

“You are such a _martyr_ ,” he mutters. “And a fool in love, apparently.”

He’s beginning to give her a headache, so she glares at him. Surprisingly, it works, and he falls silent. They reach the grave, and watch as he’s lowered in, as each pallbearer drops a symbolic handful of soil back in on top of him. The sound of earth hitting polished wood makes her wince. She’s always found this particular ritual to be awful. And then it’s over, and people are fanning out, in every direction, needing a breather from this inescapable atmosphere of tragedy before the wake.

A hand grips her arm, and she’s surprised to see Bellamy suddenly beside her.

“Do you have a minute?” He asks, and she finds it a curious question, considering that she came here for the sole purpose of being her _for him_ , but she nods. Eddie mumbles something about going to take a leak, class act that he is, and Clarke follows Bellamy off to some deserted plot under a tree. He pulls out a cigarette, and she eyes it, but doesn’t say anything. “I can literally _feel_ you judging me, Clarke. Knock it off.”

She scoffs.

“Calm down, I wasn’t judging anybody.” He just gives her a look, and she rolls her eyes. More gently, she asks, “You holding up?”

He nods, taking a long drag. His eyes are focused in the distance, something Clarke can’t see, or maybe nothing at all.

“I hate funerals,” he says.

“Not me,” Clarke says sarcastically. “I love them. Can’t get enough.” It comes out dark, and bitter, and she’s too raw to tell if she’s being wan, or just being a bitch, but he snorts.

“Why’d you come?” He asks.

“You keep asking me that,” she muses. “What do you want me to say?”

“I probably shouldn’t answer that,” he says quietly, and it’s just enough to make her hurt.

“I care about you,” she says eventually, in answer to his question. “I nee-wanted to see if you were going to be okay.”

“And?” He prompts.

“You will.” She reaches up, for the cigarette, and he passes it to her, watching with raised eyebrows as she inhales. Then his expression changes.

“What’s that?” He points to her hand. She looks at it, then realizes it’s started bleeding again.

“It’s nothing.” She passes the smoke back to him, then pulls another wipe out of her purse.

“That’s not from the other night, is it?” He asks, forehead creasing. It takes her a second to realize what he means.

“Oh, no. How’s your back, by the way?”

His eyes narrow, entirely aware that she’s changing the subject, but he shrugs.

“I’ll live.” And then, remembering where they are, he laughs darkly at his own unintentional joke.

“I’m surprised you even remember I was there,” she murmurs, watching a white haired woman hobble slowly across the grass a few yards away.

“I don’t remember much,” he admits. “But I kind of vaguely remember you being there, and _hating_ you, and Kait filled me in when I woke up.”

Clarke snorts.

“The hating me part was probably when I was pinning you down to pour rubbing alcohol on your back.” He had quite forwardly expressed his feelings about her when that was going on. “You called me some names I should probably hold against you.”

His lips quirk.

“Sorry.”

She clasps her hands in front of her, shrugging.

“It’s fine.”

When she looks back at him, she finds him staring at her.

“What?”

“You look weird.” He tells her. She huffs.

“Wow, thanks.”

“No,” He flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the little paved road winding between plots, grinding it out with his foot. “I mean you’re really pale, and your shoulders are like-” he raises his own until they almost touch his ears. “Is it Finn?”

“People keep asking me that,” she grumbles. “No, it is _not_ Finn. It’s not anything.” She glances back at the grave, and sees the Williams clan beginning to head inside. “I think that’s your cue.”

They turn and head back to the parking lot, everyone will be making their way to the restaurant for the wake. As they walk, Bellamy reaches out, grabbing the hand that Clarke hasn’t accidentally cut open.

“You probably shouldn’t have come,” he says, almost to himself. She glances at him in surprise. After almost two minutes have passed, he looks down at her. “But I was hoping you would.”

.-.-.-.-.

Bellamy doesn’t ride with her and Eddie, who she found lingering uncomfortably on the sidewalk. There are only two seats in Eddie’s stupid sports car, but Bellamy insists that he’d promised to go with Aidan anyways.

“Good talk?” Eddie asks, as they pull out of the parking lot.

“He smoked and told me I look weird,” she recounts, straightening her skirt where it’s ridden up.

“Well, I can definitely see why you like him,” Eddie says seriously. She hits him.

“He knows,” she says after a while. “Doesn’t he?”

Eddie shoots her a look, then sighs.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole.” He begins, and that doesn’t reassure her at all. “But it’s pretty obvious.”

She groans.

“That being said,” he continues, patting her leg comfortingly. “For some reason he refuses to believe that you are, or have ever really been, in love with him.”

“What?” She stares at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve always been so…one foot out the door, I guess,” he says lamely. “And Bellamy’s kind of insecure about stuff like that, so he just decided that you were never that invested.”

“That’s stupid,” she mutters. “And unfair.”

“It’s stupid,” Eddie agrees, “but it’s also fair.”

She glares at him.

“Own up to your shit, Griffin.” He says cheerfully. “Acceptance is the first step to recovery.”

“I hate you,” she says, and he chuckles.

“No,” he replies, grinning brightly over at her. “You don’t.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The wake is more of the same. Clarke hovers, feeling awkward and out of place, Eddie drinks, and Bellamy spends most of his time consoling people. Every once in a while he’ll retreat to Clarke’s corner, and she’ll force a slider on him, or a meatball, touch his arm, and then he’ll head back out into the fray. She’s not sure what her role is, but it seems to mean _something_ to Bellamy, so she sticks it out. Occasionally people approach her.

“How did you know him?” One woman asks, looking not at all forlorn, but like someone looking for gossip.

“He went to school with a close friend,” she replies. “I went to his wedding.” It’s not much, but it’s better than saying ‘I’m here because he was my ex-boyfriend’s best friend, and I’m pathetic’.

The woman nods, looking bored of her, and drifts away. Eventually, Eddie reappears.

“Find any mourning women to take advantage of?” She asks, still a little annoyed from their earlier conversation.

“Rude,” he says. “Hey, what’s your mechanic friend up to these days?”

“ _Raven_ ,” Clarke retorts, emphasizing her name, “is in the process of buying a garage.”

Eddie glances curiously at her.

“Really?”

She nods.

“And I suppose you have nothing to do with that, financially.”

Clarke makes a face.

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

“You must be doing pretty well for yourself,” he observes, “if you can be lending out that kind of cash.”

She ignores him.

A few hours later, it’s time to go.

“Why don’t you take Bellamy home?” She asks Eddie, quietly. “I’ll just catch a cab to the hotel, and then they can take me to the airport.”

He gives her that appraising look she’s beginning to get used to, then shrugs.

“Okay.”

Turning to the exhausted brunette, she taps his shoulder. He’s talking to some relative Clarke doesn’t know or care much about, turning when he feels the contact.

“Eddie’s going to take you home,” she says gently. He hasn’t made any moves to leave, but after all this time, she can read him. He needs to get out of here. His shoulders sag a little, whether it’s in relief or defeat she doesn’t know, maybe it’s both. “I’m going to head to the airport.”

He blinks, processing that.

“You’re going home.”

“Yeah,” she smiles sadly. “I think it’s probably time.” Long overdue, actually.

“Okay,” he stands there for a second, just looking at her, and then he leans down, drawing her into one of the tightest hugs she’s ever experienced. She melts into it, feeling a little boneless at the familiarity of his arms so secure around her, and presses her face into the crook of his neck. It’s too long, probably, and too close, definitely, but she can’t find it in herself to care. “Thank you,” he whispers into her ear, and it sounds like he might be trying to say something else, too, but she can’t be sure. Eventually she draws away.

“Take care of yourself, Bell.” She presses a kiss to his cheek. “No more getting so drunk you hurt yourself.” That ones an order. He presses his lips together, like maybe he wants to say something. She gives Eddie one last smile. “Lay off the prairie fires. You’re going to make yourself sick, one of these days.”

“I didn’t know you _cared_ ,” he says, affecting a deep southern drawl, and she smacks him. But she leans in for a quick hug.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely. He pats her on the head as she pulls back, which elicits a heavy eye roll.

Then she heads for the door, bidding Aidan goodbye as she passes him. As she shrugs on her coat, she hears her name again, and she glances around to see Bellamy pushing through the still-thick crowd of people.

“Just-” he hesitates, eyes heavy. “Call me when you land.”

The words feel like something she can’t quite define, like being homesick and restless at the same time.

“I will.” She tells him, and then she slides out past the door, shutting it behind her. She’s afraid that if she doesn’t leave now, she never will.

But she’s also afraid that if she leaves now, she can never come back.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that I added some tags since the last chapter. In an upcoming chapter (should be 22) there will be some violence, and I wanted to just give you all a heads up. I hadn't planned for it, but it just works with the narrative. 
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is a little shorter, because it's basically just a set-up for chapter 21. I hope you like it :)

It’s still dark out when her phone rings.

Clarke groans, rolling over to slap blindly at her nightstand a few times before her hand closes around the phone. She drags it over to her ear.

“Whoever you are, I hate you,” she mumbles, face still half pressed into her pillow.

“What? I-oh _shit_.”

“Bellamy?” She rolls over, sitting up against her headboard.

“So I _may_ have forgotten about the time difference.”

Clarke pulls the phone away from her ear long enough to look at the time.

“It’s _five thirty,_ you asshole.” She grunts. “If you’re not calling because you’re in mortal danger, you’re about to be.”

She’s only been home two days; the last time they spoke was when she called him from the airport.

“So this would be a bad time to ask you for a favour, then,” he decides, sounding hesitant. Fighting the urge to scream at him, Clarke just growls.

“I have the money to hire assassins now,” she tells him, “I want you to think about that.”

“Wow.” He sighs. “You’re really not a morning person.”

“BELLAM-”

“Alright, alright. What are you doing on the 19th?”

“Of?” She wonders.

“September.”

She blinks into the darkness of her room.

“You mean what am I doing in three weeks?”

His answering silence tells her that yes, that is exactly what he means.

“I’d have to look,” she says tiredly, “why?”

“I kind of need a date…for a work thing.”

“What work thing?” She’s suddenly suspicious. “Why are you being so weird?”

Once again he falls silent. The date sounds familiar, why does she feel like she’s heard it bef-

“The _Emmy’s_?” She blurts suddenly. “Are you asking me to be your date to the Emmy’s?”

“Maybe.”

Clarke tugs the covers over her head, then realizes he can’t see her anyways.

“Aren’t you going with Kaitlyn?” She wonders. The air under her comforter is uncomfortably hot and stuffy.

“She won’t be back by then, and…” his voice changes. “We broke up.”

“What? I’ve only been home for _two days_.” Annoyed by the knowledge that she probably won’t be able to fall back to sleep after this conversation, Clarke crawls out of bed, heading for the kitchen.

“Yeah, well. She’s dealing with some family stuff, and we kind of decided that we’re not really going to be good for each other for a while.”

“Oh.” She dumps some coffee grounds into the machine and starts it. “That makes sense. I’m sorry, though.” He sounds sad, and she can’t tell if it’s about Jake or Kaitlyn. Probably both.

“Thanks. So, will you come?”

Clarke sighs.

“If I say yes, will you promise to never, ever call me before eight o’clock _pacific time_ again?” She asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Then sure. E-mail me the details, I guess.”

He starts talking again, but she hangs up. She’s tired, and it’s early, and she’s pretty much reached her threshold for information that can be retained before six o’clock in the morning. The coffee maker hisses a little, the smell beginning to fill the air, and she collapses face first onto the couch in her living room.

Oh, _god._ She’s going to have to buy a dress.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Reaaally?” Octavia asks, eyebrows disappearing into her dark hair. “He asked you to go with him?”

“Yeah.” Clarke downs the rest of her coffee, her fourth so far, thanks to Bellamy.

“And you agreed, obviously.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look excited,” Octavia points out. Clarke shrugs, tracing the rim of her cup, eyes drifting over to a man a few tables over, who seems to be intently watching the barista. It’s a little creepy, almost.

“I’m not really sure where we stand anymore.” She admits, after a beat. Her friend studies her, quiet for a moment.

“You’re both single again.”

“Yeah, but it’s not-he still lives in Toronto, and I still live here.” Clarke mumbles, and it strikes her, for the first time, how miserable she sounds. “If anything I’ve put down more roots since we broke up, buying the gallery.”

“Sometimes I wonder what past life transgression you’re punishing yourself for,” Octavia says, shaking her head. Clarke just continues to watch the man a few tables over. He never takes his eyes off the barista.

.-.-.-.-.-.

It takes a few days to hammer out a plan, but Clarke decides she’s going to fly out the day of the ceremony. Bellamy’s going to be busy for the two days preceding it anyways, and she has no desire to sightsee by herself. The show has booked a block of rooms at the Four Seasons for the cast and crew, and Clarke has been invited to use one of them, so at least that’s taken care of.

Now she just needs a dress.

 She’s sorting through her closet, pretending something appropriate will actually be hanging there. It’s not that she _hates_ shopping. But evening gown shopping? She’s had to do the fancy dress thing too many times as a kid to enjoy it now. Her t-shirt is sticking to her, the late summer heatwave invading her usually cool loft. She plucks at the scratchy material, wishing for the thinner one she usually sleeps in. It was gone when she got back, and she strongly suspects Hayley might have taken it. She flips through the dresses hanging in front of her, the only one that even comes close to dressy enough is a floor length black number, but she’s worn enough black dresses lately to last a lifetime.

So, shopping it is.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“No,” Octavia flaps her hand, shooing Clarke back into the dressing room. “That one makes your ass look weird. Next.”

“You’re such a comfort to me,” Clarke mutters, disappearing back behind the curtain. She grabs the next contender, something navy in velvet. They’ve been here for two hours, and Octavia has nixed every single dress Clarke has tried on. This one has long sleeves, a modest high neckline, and a tight bodice. The skirt folds out in an A-line, falling to the floor. She zips up the back, stepping out into the showing area, where her friend is lounging on a plush chair.

“Oh,” Octavia makes a face. “No. What is that neckline? Where are your boobs?”

“They’re still there,” Clarke bristles, looking down. But it _is_ a little conservative, so she just retreats into the safety of her curtained room, flipping through the gowns hanging inside. She grabs one Octavia picked out, a raspberry Zac Posen number with cap sleeves and a plunging neckline. It’s surprisingly comfortable, despite the way the material clings to her like a second skin all the way down to her knees, where it flares out to pool around her feet. She picks up the bottom, thinking she’ll either need some tall heels, or some alterations, and shuffles out to show Octavia.

“Oh.” The brunette sits up straight, eyes traveling the length of the dress, and then back up. “Oh, _hell_ yes. Done. Wrap it up, and let’s go.”

Clarke’s eyebrows go up. She swivels to face the full length mirror and hums thoughtfully as she catches her reflection. It _does_ look good, emphasizing her curves, and there’s more than enough cleavage on display to appease her friend. She likes it all the more for it’s signalling the end of this exhausting trip.

“Okay,” she sighs, turning to wave at one of the fitting attendants. “I need to get this hemmed a little, I’ll get her to pin it and then we can get dinner.”

Octavia gives her a thumbs up, then goes back to scrolling through her phone.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Hey, what are you wearing?”

“What, right now?” Bellamy sounds confused, which is probably fair considering Clarke didn’t even say hello before launching into her interrogation about his apparel. “Are you hitting on me?”

“No, you idiot.” She wedges her phone between her shoulder and ear, grabbing a bottle of Sauv Blanc and making her way to the checkout. The cashier nods at her, and Clarke smiles apologetically, gesturing at her phone. “Hold on,” she mumbles to Bellamy.

After pointing at the Macallan on the shelf behind the counter, Clarke thanks the cashier, and pays, then hobbles out to her car, laden with alcohol, phone still cradled in her neck.

“The Emmys.”

There’s silence for a moment, then, uncertainly;

“Wait, are you talking to me now?”

“Jesus Christ.” She sets her bags down on the pavement, opening the drivers side door and sliding in. The booze all gets piled on the floor of the passenger’s side, and then she sits back, closing her eyes. “Okay, sorry. Yes, you. What are you wearing to the Emmys?”

“A tux, nothing crazy. Why?”

“I got my dress, wanted to make sure we weren’t going to clash. Black bow tie?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright,” she sighs, leaning forward to jam her key into the ignition. “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“Clarke?”

She pops the car into neutral, not wanting to drive with this phone stuck to her ear. The last thing she needs is another ticket. Between her and Octavia, the Charger is a few points away from being impounded.

“Mmm?”

“I-” he pauses. “Uh, never mind. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay,” she slides the gearshift back into first. “Bye.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 “Oh man, I forgot how good this is,” Clarke mumbles, mouth full of pizza. Jasper nods enthusiastically, while Miller just watches both of them in disgust.

“Aren’t you rich now? Have some standards,” he mutters, crossing the room to flop down beside Monty on the couch.

“Pizza can be good and _also_ cost 9.99 for an extra large,” Jasper argues, though most of his words come out muffled, crumbs flying from his mouth as he speaks. Him, Clarke and Raven are sitting around Miller’s dining room table, inhaling pizza, while Monty and Miller watch from the couch. Raven rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, Nate, don’t be such a snob.” She folds her piece in half, taking a massive bite. As Clarke goes for a second piece, she realizes the food has only been here for ten minutes, and it’s already half gone. She eyes the massive bong on the coffee table, blaming the weed. They’re all prone to the munchies, but Jasper seems to have already eaten an entire pie to himself.

“So,” Clarke props her feet up on Raven’s lap. “How’s the hospital?”

Monty shrugs, seeming to realize that Jasper isn’t going to stop eating long enough to answer that.

“Same old. Someone died in the bathroom in the third floor nurse’s station.”

Clarke gapes at him.

“Who?”

“Oh,” Jasper waves a hand at her, mouth only half full now. “No one you know. It was a patient who’d wandered in. Adam found her, when he went in to take a leak.”

Raven makes a face.

“Okay, some of us don’t want to hear about dead people while they’re trying to eat.”

Jasper shrugs, his own appetite obviously undisturbed. Just then, Clarke’s phone rings. She doesn’t even look at it, leaning back wearily in her chair. The others glance at it, then at her.

“Um,” Miller says eventually. “Are you not going to answer that?”

Clarke shakes her head.

“No, it’s some number that keeps calling me and hanging up. They’ve called like six times in the past week.”

“A heavy breather?” Jasper asks, perking up curiously.

“No, I don’t think so.” She pulls her phone across the table, glancing at the screen just to check that it isn’t Bellamy, or Anya. “It almost seems like a robodialer gone haywire or something.”

Monty frowns.

“Are you sure? Have you looked up the number?”

“Yeah, I googled it. All that comes up is some massive conglomerate company, BW.”

“Brennan Worldwide.” Miller says. “They own a bunch of stuff, restaurants, hotel chains, rental car companies. Cold calling maybe?”

Clarke shrugs.

“I’ve got a friend who’s VPD,” he tells her. “I can get him to run the number if you want, they can probably find out where it’s coming from.”

“Sure,” she says, surprised. “Thanks.”

“So.” Raven seems to finally be finished eating, wiping her hands on a napkin before turning seriously to Clarke. “Let’s talk about how you’re going to get me Kit Harington’s phone number.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke’s Dress: https://cdna.lystit.com/photos/2012/10/19/zac-posen-raspberry-bonded-crepe-capsleeve-gown-product-1-5035558-045486022.jpeg


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I hope everyone is doing alright. It's been a long 24 hours, and I just want to sincerely extend my thoughts and condolences to anyone who was affected by the tragedy in Orlando. 
> 
> On a lighter note, because we need those, thank you to Marys for helping me hammer out some of the details/plotlines for this and other chapters. You da best <3
> 
> We're coming to a close here, only maybe two more chapters. Anyways, enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. I suck at photoshop but I included a picture of Clarke's Emmy's outfit.

Clarke's Dress:

* * *

 

“Oh, no.” Clarke stares at the clock in front of her in horror. “No, no no no-” she leaps off the bed, swearing. All she’d wanted to do was close her eyes. She needed a moment of quiet after being on a plane all night. But apparently she’d fallen asleep. For an hour.

At least she knows the hotel beds are comfortable.

It’s almost two p.m. now, and she was supposed to meet Marian ten minutes ago to get her makeup done.

“ _Shit_ ”, she hisses, shoving her shoes back on as she stumbles for the door. Just as she reaches for the knob, someone knocks. She swings it open, blinking at the sight of a uniformed concierge holding a silver tray. “Um,” she says awkwardly. “Hi, I actually have to go, so-”

“I have a complimentary snack,” he tells her, and lowers the tray so she can see the water bottle and muffin on it. “The Four Seasons is providing one for all our guests of the Benson party.” He means everyone with _Earthbound_.

“Oh,” she sighs, trying to edge him out the door. “I was just leaving, actually.” He doesn’t make any move to go, so she just takes the tray from him, plastering a fake smile on her face. “Okay, great thanks.” She digs a tip out of her purse, and he disappears.

Clarke tosses the tray on the desk, then, as an afterthought, grabs the muffin. She takes a bite as she bolts to the elevator. Marian is going to kill her.

.-.-.-.-.

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke says, for what’s probably the thirtieth time.

“Will you stop? I told you, it’s fine. I’m used to working with actors, and they’re _always_ late.” Marian says cheerfully, shooting one of the girls in the corner of her room a dark look. The girl, a new addition to the show since the last time Clarke hung out with the cast, sticks out her tongue.

Marian is the lead makeup artist for _Earthbound_ , and one of the few people on the show that Clarke genuinely likes. When she’d heard that Clarke was going to the awards, she’d offered to do her makeup. And since Clarke’s usual beauty routine consists of mascara, and on very special occasions, eyeliner, accepting had been a no-brainer. As a wet brush comes down on her cheek, she shivers.

“I can’t believe I fell asleep. I slept on the plane, too.”

“Well, it’s probably good you did,” Marian replies, buffing the foundation into her face. “I doubt you’ll get much sleep tonight.”

“Yeah,” the other girl, Bianca, Clarke thinks, pipes up. “You’re going with Bellamy Blake, right? He looks like he could keep you up _all night_.” Her smile is lascivious, and Marian shoots her a look.

“Um,” Clarke fights to keep a smile off her face. She’s not _wrong_. “We’re just going as friends.”

Bianca makes a noise of disapproval.

“Bellamy is Clarke’s ex,” Marian tells her. Bianca’s mouth drops open.

“Oh.” She blinks. “Sorry.” Clarke just shrugs.

“It’s fine.” The next half hour is spent talking about who they think will win, whether or not some celebrity couple Clarke has never heard of will reconcile, and whether Bianca has a shot with Aaron Tveit. When Marian finally finishes with Clarke, she grins.

“God, you’re a pretty girl. How come you never went into acting?”

Clarke shrugs, then turns to look at herself, having to press her lips together to keep from smiling. Marian did a stunning job, shadows darkened under her cheekbones to minimize the roundness of her face, a dark, smoky eye making the near turquoise of her irises pop. And, of course, a bright raspberry lip to go with her dress. Marian hands the tube of lipstick over reluctantly.

“For touch ups. In case you chew it off.”

“Or someone else chews it off,” Bianca says suggestively.

.-.-.-.-.

An hour later, with a warning not to mess up her hair or makeup, Clarke walks back to her own room to get dressed. Thankfully, the plunging neckline of her dress allows her to pull it on without damaging the artfully tousled updo Amy gave her, and she manages to zip it up herself while stepping into her shoes. The material flows right to the floor, so no one can actually see the four inch heels, but according to Octavia wearing flats with an evening gown is practically a capital offence. And anyways, at 5’4 Clarke has long since gotten used to wearing heels.

She’s supposed to meet Bellamy downstairs in five minutes, so she just swipes her clutch from the top of the dresser and turns to survey the finished product. Not bad. Apparently she’s already chewed off a little of the lipstick, so she leans into the mirror to reapply. A knock comes from the door.

“Just a minute,” she calls, pressing her lips together to blend the crimson more evenly. Then she half jogs to the door, clutch in tow.

“Oh,” she smiles as the door swings open to reveal Bellamy. “Hey.”

He looks good in a way that would have her toes curling if it weren’t for the fact that they were already jammed into the tips of her shoes. The tux he’s wearing is black, clearly professionally tailored, and looks a lot more expensive than the one he wore to Octavia’s wedding. She can tell by the way it hangs. When her gaze finally makes it back up to his face, and, oh, _good,_ he’s left his hair curly this time, she blinks at the expression that meets her.

Clearly, he’s doing an appraisal of his own, eyes roving slowly up her body, lingering at her chest just long enough not to be subtle. His eyes come up to meet hers, and there’s a heat in them that she recognizes, that makes very specific parts of her anatomy throb. Unhelpfully, Bianca’s comment from earlier rings in her ears.

“You look…” his voice is gravelly, and he clears his throat. “Uh, you look good.”

“I know,” she says, because it will make him smile. And it does. “So do you.”

“I figured since you flew all the way out here, the least I could do is pick you up at your room,” he eventually says. Ignoring the fact that his pupils are nearly all the way dilated as he looks at her, and the way it’s making her feel a little feverish, she nods, holding up her clutch.

“Okay, I was just coming to meet you. We can go.” She ushers him out, then slips the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the door. When he looks at it curiously, she shrugs. “I brought two sets of jewelry because I couldn’t decide. I put them in the safe, but, you know.”

“Sure.” He says, but she gets the sense that he doesn’t really. Sometimes she forgets that even though he’s doing well for himself now, he spent most of his life just getting by. They make their way to the elevator, and she can _feel_ him staring.

“Stop staring at me.”

“I don’t think I can.”

She glares at him, and his lips twist into a half smile, the one that used to make her stomach flip. Much to her chagrin, she finds that it still does. He reaches over to flick one of hear earrings, a large teardrop blue topaz that dangles from a silver stud.

“I like these.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“How Hollywood of you.”

His smirk cracks into a wide smile.

“Have I told you yet how glad I am that you came?”

Surprised by the earnest tone of his voice, she pauses.

“Uh, no.”

“I’m really glad it’s you, you know. I mean we won’t win or anything, but even being nominated…” He scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I wanted you here for it. With me.”

Her lips part, and it takes a few seconds for her to catch up with his sudden change in mood. The elevator doors open, saving her from having to answer. He grabs her hand, pulling her through the lobby. There’s a car waiting outside, and, ever the gentleman, he holds the door open while she folds herself inside. As they pull away from the curb, she can’t help but lean into him, careful not to wreck her hair as she drops her head onto his shoulder.

“Just for the record,” she says quietly, “I wanted to be here with you, too.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Oh,” Clarke says, head swiveling round in terror. “My. God.” She clutches Bellamy’s arm like a toddler hanging onto their mother’s leg, but he just smiles.

“Come on, Princess. It’s just a few paparazzi.”

By _a few paparazzi_ , he’s referring to the horde of photographers jostling behind the rope, all shouting at the slow march of dressed up somebody’s strolling along the red carpet. She really hates photographers.

“I mean,” she rationalizes, as he half drags her down the lane, thicker into the chaos. “I’m nobody. And you’re just a writer, right? You’re not famous.”

He raises an eyebrow, and she realizes how that sounds.

“A very good writer,” she amends. He just continues to smirk at her. “A very handsome, talented guy.” One of the paps yells at her to get out of the way, she’s blocking his shot of Kerry Washington.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for camera shy,” Bellamy murmurs, drawing her closer. She instantly feels a little more at ease, breathing in the usual scent of Bellamy, mixed with a woodsy new cologne she likes.

“I didn’t think I was,” she says, a little hysterically. His teasing smile fades into concern.

“Okay, come on.” He quickens his pace, brushing past the celebrities lingering in front of the cameras. They’re almost to the doors when someone shouts at him.

“Bellamy! You sure have a thing for blondes, what happened to Kaitlyn?”

He stops in surprise, glancing over at the man in question, a short man who’s probably in his thirties, but somehow manages to look sixty, his scruffy brown goatee turned up in an obnoxious grin.

“She had other obligations,” Bellamy says stiffly. Clarke is surprised he’s addressing him at all, so she just hovers, his arm still wrapped around her waist.

“So who’s this?” The man prompts, lifting his camera to snap a photo. Clarke winces at the flash, and Bellamy’s grip on her tightens protectively. He glances at her, thoughtful.

“This is Clarke.” Then he tugs her away, through the door. The darkness is almost blinding after the combination of sun and flashing lights outside, but she feels an automatic sense of relief at being away from the cameras. “Sorry.” Bellamy’s lips brush her ear, it’s loud enough that he has to speak right against it so she can hear him. “If I didn’t give a name it would have been a thing.”

She shrugs.

“It’s okay.” As they make their way further inside her, eyes adjust, and she stares around at the familiar faces.

“Hey, none of that.” Bellamy mutters, watching her.

“What?” She looks at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re about to go all swooning fan on me. I can see it.”

She rolls her eyes. Then she spots Katherine McPhee.

“Clarke,” Bellamy groans, following her eye line. “No. Let’s just go find our seats.”

“You’re just threatened,” she grumbles, letting him guide her toward the theater. “Because you know I’d abandon you and run off with her in a second.”

“Right,” he scoffs. “Like _that_ doesn’t go both ways.”

She bites her lip, suppressing a grin.

“Hey, Blake.”

Clarke tenses, bracing herself for another creepy paparazzi before remembering they aren’t allowed inside. As Bellamy turns he pulls her with him, his arm still securely in place around her waist. For a second she thinks the man walking toward them is Eddie, but as he gets closer she realize it’s not. They do look strikingly similar, but this man’s eyes are hazel, as opposed to Eddie’s steel blue, and his blonde hair is a few shades darker.

Still, if they aren’t related, Clarke will eat her clutch.

“Cooper, hey.” Bellamy is keeping a polite distance, she notices, but Cooper leans in to shake his hand. “Clarke, this is Cooper Masterson. Eddie’s brother.”

“Hi,” she holds her hand out, and he takes it, but not without first taking a painfully obvious look down her dress. Her smile freezes in place, and she feels Bellamy stiffen irritably beside her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

At her name, recognition flashes across his face.

“You’re shitting me. _You’re_ Clarke?”

“Um,” she glances at Bellamy in confusion. “That’s what my mom says, anyways.”

His laugh is warm, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Man, I’ve heard about you. You know I bought one of your paintings?”

She nods.

“Yeah, Eddie told me.” She never really knows what to say to people who buy her art. “You must have good taste.” The joke feels a little dry on her tongue, but Cooper just smiles pointedly.

“I do. Then again, if I’d known you looked like _that_ ,” his eyes roam deliberately over her body. “-I would have asked for your number along with the sale.”

When Clarke looks up at Bellamy, his polite smile has faded, eyes hard. Cooper catches the exchange, glancing between the two of them.

“I’d heard you guys broke up though.” His gaze, for the first time in minutes, flicks over to Bellamy. “Aren’t you with Kaitlyn Herald now?”

“No,” Bellamy says, shortly. Cooper’s face turns calculating.

“I’m having an after party,” he says, turning back to Clarke. “You should come. I’d love to pick your brain. You could tell me what you’re working on and I could show you where I hung your painting.”

His tone is anything but subtle, and something about him makes her skin crawl. Possibly the fact that his eyes take a dive every thirty seconds to stare at her cleavage. Bellamy makes a noise in his throat, something between a choke and a growl. Cooper frowns, a barely believable confusion settling over his features.

“Unless you two are…”

“We are.” Bellamy says, his voice low and dangerous, his ribs vibrating against Clarke’s. His hand, which was hovering at her waist where his arm looped around it, grips her hip possessively. She leans into him, smiling innocently at Cooper.

“Oh.” He takes a step back, though his brow furrows skeptically. “My mistake.”

“We should find out seats,” Clarke reminds Bellamy loudly, and he blinks.

“Right. Sorry, Cooper. See you around.” Without waiting for a reply, Bellamy wheels her around. It takes her a second to realize that they’re heading away from the auditorium.

“Um,” she glances over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

Bellamy doesn’t even break his stride.

“Bar.”

.-.-.-.-.

She doesn’t mention it at the bar. In fact, she lets him get all the way to his seat, waits until he’s settled in, and then she leans forward, a feline smile splitting her face.

“So,” she drawls, and all it takes is one look at her before he sighs, knowing exactly where this is headed. He groans.

“Oh, don’t start. Cooper’s an asshole. I was just trying to protect you.”

“No kidding,” she sighs. “What a fucking charmer. Who would’ve thought Eddie was actually the good egg in that family?” Then she frowns sternly at Bellamy. “But I don’t need you scaring guys off for me.”

“Are you serious? Would you rather I let him stare down your dress for another five minutes?” He glares at her incredulously.

“So your solution to that is just going to be to tell everyone we’re together? You do realize that probably won’t be the only time that happens.” She has great boobs. They both know this.

“I was thinking on my feet,” he mutters defensively. She doesn’t completely believe him, but she lets it go. For now.

“I can stand up for myself,” she points out. He snorts.

“Oh believe me, I know.” He sneaks a sidelong glance at her, then sighs. “I know I shouldn’t have let you leave the hotel looking like that.”

“Excuse me?” She gasps, indignant. Bellamy looks up at the tone of her voice, and pales.

“No!” He corrects, sounding panicked. “I didn’t mean-I just meant…”

She glares at him.

“I just meant you look really good,” he says weakly, sitting back as the lights begin to dim. Her lips twitch.

“Mhmm.”

“You-fuck it.” He waves a hand at her irritably. “You know you look unbelievable. I knew the second I saw you I wouldn’t be able to focus all night.” He isn’t looking at her now, eyes on the stage, and he almost seems to talking to himself more than her. “Ever since we got here I’ve been afraid that someone’s going to pick you up and just run off with you.”

Her mouth falls open, a little, and she’s suddenly glad that the lights have gone down so he can’t see the flush on her face.

“Bellamy-”

His phone goes off, interrupting her and earning them both a few scandalized glances from nearby tables.

“Seriously?” She mutters. “You didn’t turn your ringer off?”

“I forgot,” he says absently, frowning as he holds it to his ear. “Wh-oh Christ.”

Her head snaps toward him.

“What’s wrong?”

“The-it was the hotel. Apparently someone got caught trying to break into my room. They need me to go back, I-” He glances back up at the stage, where the ceremony has started. “I mean our category isn’t until later, but I don’t know how long this will take-” Even in the dark Clarke can see the frustration in his eyes. “I don’t think this can wait.”

She considers him, thoughtful.

“Okay, well I’ll go.”

He stares at her.

“What? But-”

“Look, none of your crew is here, and you can’t exactly go crawling over all the tables to ask one of _them_.” She gestures in the direction of the _Earthbound_ cast’s table, across the theater, where all the lead actors are sitting. “I doubt they’d go anyways.” Her voice lowers to a whisper as the first host for the evening starts their introduction.

“I don’t want you to miss anything,” Bellamy whispers back, looking pained.

“Well,” she murmurs, “better me than you. Besides, maybe it won’t take that long.”

“You’ll have to go back out past the paps,” he reminds her. She chews on her bottom lip, hearing Marian’s voice in her head, chastising her for ruining her lipstick.

“I’ll live.” She holds her hand out. “Give me your room key.”

He does, opening his mouth. Before he can say anything, she leans forward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll hurry,” she promises, and then she slips out into the aisle as quietly as she can. She means that. The last thing she wants is to do is miss his face when he sees the name of his own show flashing across the big screen.

.-.-.-.-.-.

 “No, I _know_ I’m not Bellamy, obviously,” Clarke mutters, resisting the urge to drop her head onto the counter. She’s been arguing with this concierge at the front desk for almost ten minutes. “Bellamy is at the Emmy’s right now, where I am also supposed to be, hence the fact that I’m a little overdressed to be hanging out in your lobby.” She gestures to her outfit.

“Um,” The mention of the Emmy’s seems to spur the girl into action, her eyes taking in Clarke’s appearance with a new interest. It’s probably occurring to her that she might just be pissing off somebody important. She’d be wrong, but Clarke certainly isn’t going to correct her. “Let me get my manager.”

“Great, yes, thank you.” Clarke watches her go, black ponytail swishing behind her as she walks. A few seconds later, she reappears, an older brunette in tow. This new woman, the manager, presumably, smiles.

“Hi, I’m Linda. What seems to be the problem?”

“Hi, Linda,” Clarke says, already exhausted by this exchange. “My boyfriend got a call from your hotel, saying that someone tried to break into his room. He couldn’t exactly be here, but I’m hoping you can tell me what’s going on?”

Linda blinks.

“Oh, oh dear. Okay. What was your boyfriend’s name?”

Clarke only lied because she figured it would make it easier for her to get information out of them. But so far it seems to be working, so she goes with it.

“Bellamy Blake. He’s part of the Benson party.”

Linda taps away at the computer, then looks up. The process of it all leaves Clarke wondering if this whole break and enter thing is more common at the hotel than she’d realized. Eventually, Linda looks up at her.

“Oh, yes. It seems that was a false alarm.”

Clarke’s head jerks up from staring at the hem of her dress.

“ _What_?”

Sensing a possible scene, Linda straightens.

“I’m so sorry. It happens, sometimes, with the male housekeeping staff. People see them and…make assumptions.” Her apology seems genuine, so Clarke just sighs, hand curling into a fist beneath the counter.

“It was just housekeeping? You’re sure.”

The older woman nods again.

“Unfortunately. Or…” She frowns. “Fortunately. Depending on how you look at it.”

That, Clarke supposes, is true.

“That’s a pretty dress,” Linda adds. Clarke looks down at it.

“Well,” she says dryly. “I was in the middle of the Emmy’s.”

The look on Linda’s face is almost worth the trip.

Almost.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Since she’s there, Clarke decides to run back to her room and reapply her antiperspirant. The theater is turning out to be hotter, and stuffier, than she’d anticipated, and she could use the touch up. She fires off a quick text to Bellamy.

_It was a false alarm, just housekeeping. I guess to some people all men are inherently burglars or something. OMW back._

She slides her card key into the slot, sighing happily as the frigid air of her room hits her. She has a bad habit of cranking the air conditioning in hotel rooms, but right now it feels deliciously good.

She’s so distracted by the feeling of the cold air on her overheated skin that she doesn’t hear the sound of footsteps on the carpet behind her. She does hear the crack of something heavy hitting the back of her skull, it seems to reverberate inside her head, along with a searing white flash of pain.

And then everything goes black.

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to publish this chapter a little differently, including both this and what will now be the next chapter as one part. But it's taking longer than I had expected, and I know I left you with a bit of a cliffhanger, so I decided to break it up and give you this now. 
> 
> Kudos to those of you who guessed who Clarke's assailant was! I hope you all are still with me after this chapter, at this point it seems there will be two more.
> 
> I just want to note that I'm about to enter into three weeks from hell; I've just gotten a full time job which is an hour commute each way, I'm packing up 22 years worth of stuff and moving to a new place which I'm going to have to spend two weeks renovating and moving into on top of working 40+ hours a week, my brother is graduating and has like 4 events for some reason that I have to go to, AND everyone I know was born in the next few weeks so there are a lot of birthdays happening. So I am going to do everything I can to have this story regularly updated until the end, but if I fail, just know I'm super busy.
> 
> Hopefully I get this done before I'm too thick into that stuff so it all works out, but just a heads up.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

When Clarke was six years old she fell off her bicycle. Abby had been nagging at her to wear a helmet, but Clarke had only just mastered the art of the two-wheeler, and she had no desire to dampen that achievement by strapping a helmet to her head.

But, inevitably, she’d picked up too much speed going down a hill, and panicked, braking hard. The result had been the back wheel of her bike wrenching off the ground, the whole thing flipping back over front, taking Clarke with it. The pavement came up to meet her forehead, and when she woke up, she’d gotten to suffer through her very first concussion. The pain, for a six year old, had been unbearable.

But that pain was nothing compared to the agony that startles her awake now.

“Ah,” her voice comes out in a rough squeak, and even that exacerbates the pounding in her head. It feels like her skull has cracked in half. She definitely has a concussion. Forcing her eyes open, which is a battle once the light hits them, though there’s barely any, she tries to focus. The last thing she remembers is going back to her room at the hotel, and then-

She sits up, and her stomach rolls. Someone was there. Someone hit her over the head.

With that realization comes fear, creeping in from her fingertips down, like ice water in her veins. She doesn’t know where she is. It’s definitely not her hotel room. The light, wherever she is, is negligible. Her back is pressing against a wall, and the cold that’s seeping through her dress there makes her think it must be concrete. Her hands are tied, sitting uselessly in her lap, but she runs them along the floor, deciding that it must be concrete as well. She’s still dressed.

And then something else hits her.

It’s silent. The only sounds she can hear are those of her own breathing and the pounding of her heart. Which means that no one can hear _her_ either. Her pulse takes off, and the nausea comes back, full force.

Where the fuck is she?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Where the fuck is she?” Bellamy mutters, checking his phone for the twentieth time. She texted him saying she was on her way almost two hours ago. Their category has come and gone, they lost to Mad Men. Clarke missed it.

And maybe he’s just projecting his own disappointment, but Bellamy can’t help but feel like Clarke would have run all the way here from the hotel if she had to, rather than miss this.

So where is she?

.-.-.-.-.-.

No one comes.

An hour passes, or maybe it’s five minutes, the pain in her head and the lack of any windows make it impossible to tell.

And then another five minute hour, and another, until she starts to panic, a little. There’s something about being isolated like this, no daylight, no people, no sense of time, that sends her into a panic.

She doesn’t want to die here.

She eyes the solid white door in the corner of the room desperately. She knows it’s solid, she spent what felt like twenty minutes trying to knock it down, but it’s impossible to get leverage in this dress, with her hands tied, it’s impossible to do pretty much anything with this headache. Logically, she knows that whoever eventually comes through that door wants something from her, is a threat to her.

But at this point, she’s not sure it can be worse than the waiting.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“You saw her? She was here?”

The concierge nods, looking nervous. Bellamy can’t really blame her, he’s practically vibrating with panicked energy, fingers tapping manically against the counter.

“She talked to my manager for a bit, then she left.”

He scans her nametag absently. Nadia.

“Okay, is your manager here?”

“Um, yeah, hold on.” Nadia disappears for a few seconds, returning with an older woman. According to her nametag, this is Linda.

“Hi,” Bellamy doesn’t even give her a chance to say hello. “My friend was here this afternoon about a break-in, in my room.”

Linda seems to take in his outfit, he’s still wearing his tux, didn’t bother to change when he checked his room looking for Clarke.

“I remember. The blonde in the red dress.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “that’s her.”

“I haven’t seen her since then,” Linda says hesitantly, sensing that it isn’t what he wants to hear.

“Okay,” he deflates, scrubbing a hand wearily across his face. “And when was that?”

She pauses, thoughtful.

“Around four? Maybe four thirty?”

It’s just past ten now. As far as Bellamy can tell, no one has seen her for six hours. He’s already called everyone he can think of, Raven, Octavia, Miller. He even called Eddie, asking if his friend had heard from Clarke. But no one knows anything. It seems like she’s just disappeared.

“Look, is there any chance you can give me a key to her room? She’s kind of…missing.”

For the first time in this entire exchange, Linda looks alarmed.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that…but if you’re really concerned, I could arrange to check her room. And you’re welcome to tag along.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t have high hopes, he’d knocked on her door when he checked his own room, but it’s possible she’s just passed out. “Please.”

Linda nods, grabbing a cardkey from the stack beside her computer and running it through the magnetizing slot. It beeps, the light flashing green, then she steps out from behind the counter.

“Alright, come with me.”

He does, practically stepping on her heels in impatience. Clarke’s room is on the fifth floor, along with the rest of the crew, the cast and producers are in suites higher up. The elevator ride takes what seems like half an hour, and he has to stop himself from sprinting down the hallway ahead of her. He knows which room it is, still, he waits for Linda to get there, watches as she knocks, slides the key into the door, as she pushes it open.

Clearly anticipating his edginess, she steps aside in time for him to push his way inside.

“Clarke?”

He shivers. She always keeps the air so damn cold. But he checks the bathroom, and the bed. She’s not there.

“I’m sorry,” Linda says softly, behind him. He’s about to reply when she speaks again. “Uh, Mr. Blake-”

The tone of her voice has him turning, and he follows her gaze to the floor.

It’s Clarke’s phone. As the two of them stare at it, it lights up, Octavia’s face flashing across the screen.

There’s a crack in the glass, splitting his sister’s face in half. He turns back to Linda, feeling all the blood drain from his face.

“I think,” he says quietly, voice sounding strange to his own ears, “that you should call the cops now.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

The worst part of a concussion, Clarke finds herself thinking, is the throwing up. She’s hunched over in the corner of the room, heaving, and every retch sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through her cranium, which in turn only makes the nausea worse.

She feels disgusting as she crawls back to the other side of the room. Her makeup is smeared and caked all over her face, her mouth tastes awful. The urge to curl up in a ball and cry is almost overwhelming.

She wants her mom.

She wants Bellamy.

.-.-.-.-.

Clarke jerks awake to the same dead silence that lulled her to sleep. Horrified, she presses a hand to her chest. She shouldn’t be sleeping, not with a concussion.

Not when she has no idea where she is, or who’s watching her.

As though the very thought has summoned them, the click of a lock comes from the white door, reverberating in the small room. She sits ramrod straight, perfectly still, barely even remembering to breathe. She can’t say how long it’s been, best guess is maybe nine or ten hours, since she hasn’t had to pee yet, but it already feels like she’s lived a lifetime in this hole.

The handle turns; she can see the movement even in the dim light, and then the door is swinging open. A man steps in, in the dark all she can tell is that he has short dark hair, and he’s tall. Suddenly, a light floods the room from overhead, white, and sterile, and _burning_.

She makes a noise of pain, eyelids slamming shut even as her instincts tell her to keep this intruder carefully in her sight. There are tears streaming down her face as she forces her eyes back open, just a reflex to the jarring lack of darkness, and as her pupils constrict, she realizes she recognizes the man standing in front of her.

“Wh-what?” She stammers, gaping at him in confusion.

It’s Steven.

And then her gaze falls onto the knife in his hand.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“No, I _know_ the procedure, you’ve explained it to me four times!” Bellamy shouts, fist coming down on the sergeant’s desk in front of him. “But you don’t know Clarke, she wouldn’t have just fucked off in the middle of an awards show!”

“Hey man, you’ve got to keep it together.” Eddie’s hand comes down on his shoulder. He was in town for something non-Emmy’s related, but met Bellamy at the hotel the second he heard about Clarke going MIA. “I know you’re worried, but yelling at the cops isn’t going to help.”

Bellamy just shrugs him off, resuming his earlier habit of pacing in front of the booking desk.

“I’m sorry.” The staff sergeant does look genuinely apologetic, her lined features further creasing sympathetically. “But if she hasn’t been gone for twenty-four hours, there’s really nothing we can do yet.”

“It’s been twelve hours,” Bellamy counters, spinning on his heel. “Twelve hours since the last person saw her, and she told me she was coming right back. She left her phone,” he mutters, pointing at where it sits in front of her, “-which was dropped, on the floor, in the middle of her hotel room, broken. Are you seriously telling me that doesn’t count as…as the sign of a struggle?”

The officer sighs.

“Unfortunately it’s not enough. You’re just going to have to come back after twenty-four hours.”

“And if something happened to her?” Bellamy asks, bluntly. “If she’s in trouble? What happens in the next twelve hours?”

“There no reason to _assume_ that’s the case-”

“What would you do?” He asks her suddenly. “Knowing what you know now, what would you do?”

The look that crosses her face is answer enough. Something is wrong, they all know it.

But no one will fucking _do_ anything about it.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“I don’t understand.” The words push themselves off her lips, as though the filter between her brain and her mouth has completely disappeared. Steven stares at her. He looks the same, almost exactly, eyes huge and sad, nothing in his face to betray what’s going on, why he’s here.

“What don’t you understand?” Even his voice sounds the same. It should be one of the least threatening things she’s ever heard, it’s not deep, or angry, it’s just quiet, a little melancholy. But her eyes are still on the knife, and he’s just standing there, looking at her, and every cell in her body is screaming _danger, danger_.

Everything, she thinks, as the answer to his question. She doesn’t understand a single thing that’s happening in this moment. She settles for;

“Why am I here?”

He cocks his head at her question, continuing to stare, to study her.

“You’re here because you’re supposed to be.”

Somewhere in the part of her mind that isn’t terrified, or concussed, she registers that to be one of the least helpful answers possible.

“I don’t…what does that mean?” Her throat is dry. She wants to know what time it is.

“I knew that if I just told you, you wouldn’t believe me.” He says it like it’s her fault, like he blames her for something she never had the chance to do. “But that night…God took Maya away from me, but He gave me you. It was fate.” His tone is dreamy now, and Clarke feels sick all over again. He’s not in his right mind.

And she’s in all the more danger for it.

“Steven,” she says tentatively, “I think you need help, and I can help you, but you have to let me-”

“Uh-uh-uh.” He shakes his head, lowering the tip of the knife to point it at her. It’s one of those long hunting blades, the kind her uncle used to keep sheathed at his hip when they went camping. If Steven wanted to, she knows he could gut her with it. And the sudden transformation of his face, from the frown she recognized to a sick, angry smirk has her wondering if maybe that isn’t exactly what he plans to do. “You’re only saying that because you don’t see it yet. But you will.”

“See what?” She doesn’t want to know. But she can’t see any other way out than to try and give him what he wants.

“That you’re meant for me. We’re going to be together. I had to let go of Maya so I could meet you.”

Appalled, Clarke scrambles to think of something, anything, to say to that.

“So…you’re just going to keep me here?” She asks, a little desperately. The more unstable he seems, the more she loses any hope of talking him into letting her go.

“Of course not,” Steven grimaces, as though he finds the idea distasteful. “But people will be looking for you, for a while. We have to keep you out of sight.”

At least, Clarke thinks, it sounds like he’s planning on keeping her alive.

“I have to pee,” she blurts out, then finds that she does. But she also wants to see what’s outside this room, if he’ll let her. Praying that he won’t just throw a bucket at her, she tries to school her face into something soft and pleading. For a second, he just looks at her, unnervingly still. Then he leans forward, Clarke automatically recoiling into the wall as he reaches for her. He makes a sound of irritation, hand curling around her bicep.

“Alright.” He tugs her roughly to her feet. “Come on.”

She stumbles a little as he pulls her alongside him, wondering where her shoes went. As they shoulder through the door, she stares around at her new surroundings. To her disappointment, it’s just a stairwell, the same basic concrete that made up her cell. And then they’re going up, and the stairs are a little difficult to navigate now that her head is swimming and throbbing. The entire stairwell seems to be spinning. She falters, and he notices, catching her under the arms as she pitches forward.

“What are you doing?” He asks, suspicious.

“It’s my head,” she breathes. “I’ve got a concussion, I need a doctor-”

He scoffs.

“ _You’re_ a doctor. There’s nothing anyone else could do for you that you can’t do.”

He’s not wrong, really. But the disorientation of being kept in a grey cement cube without any sense of time or water is probably not helping her headaches. Or her confusion. It’s difficult to focus on what he’s saying, to remember.

“I’m not,” she says wearily. “I’m not a doctor anymore.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that, just yanks her back to her feet.

“Come on.”

It’s slow going, but they make it up the rest of the stairs. The flight has thirty-seven in total. Clarke counted as they climbed. At the top is another door, and Steven pulls a key from his pocket, unlocking it. Before they go any further, he turns to her.

“No fucking around.” The blade of the knife, just for a second, presses against her windpipe. She nods. Then he pushes her forward, and without her arms to throw out for balance, she trips over her dress and falls heavily to her knees. Steven sighs angrily, as though she did it on purpose just to piss him off, and picks her up by her hair this time. Her eyes water at the pain, which is only compounded by the tenderness in her scalp from when he knocked her out.

She hates him. She feels weak, and utterly powerless, and as he’s standing there hauling her up by her hair, she hates him.

It gives her something to feel, other than scared, or exhausted, or lost, so she holds onto it. She’s angry and she hates him.

As she regains her footing, and the moisture in her eyes recedes, she can see that they’re in a basement. It looks like it belongs to a house, maybe, hideous dark green carpets covering the floor, an old wooden bookshelf sitting in the corner, piled high with faded board games. There’s an unfinished staircase disappearing up to a level she can’t see, and, in front of them, another door. It strikes her, as they walk toward it, that there are no windows in this room either. The need to know what time it is flares in the back of her head, throbbing along with the pain. Do people know she’s missing yet? Does Bellamy?

“Here,” Steven grunts, kicking the door open while keeping a firm hold on her. It’s a bathroom, or a powder room, a dingy toilet sitting beside a pink sink. He lets go of her, crossing his arms, but doesn’t turn away.

“I’m-are you going to _watch me_?” She demands, hands fisting in front of her.

He regards her for a moment, then, reluctantly, turns to face away from her.

“You have one minute.”

It’s going to take at least that, she realizes, as she struggles to hike up the floor length skirt with her hands tied together. She inches the material up her leg, grabbing it in one fist and pulling. She’s always had a shy bladder, but it isn’t a problem now, and she wonders if maybe she’s been here longer than she realized. When she’s done, she turns to the sink.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” she tells him, and he turns back around.

“Alright.”

She takes longer than she should, washing some of the caked makeup off her face, probably pushing her luck.

But she’ll do anything to postpone having to go back in that windowless box.

.-.-.-.-.

“I don’t really know what else we _can_ do Bellamy,” Eddie says gently, looking up at him in concern. “The cops won’t help until it’s been twenty-four hours. They were pretty clear.”

“I have to do _something_ ,” Bellamy rasps. He hasn’t really stopped pacing since the police station. They’re back at the hotel now, and he can’t sit still. “It’s not right. I can feel it. Something’s wrong. And I can’t wait another six hours.”

A weight has settled in his stomach, like a ball of ice, the feeling that Clarke is in trouble, that she needs him. He should never have let her come back to the hotel by herself, he should have gone himself. Eddie looks like he knows what Bellamy is thinking, and his eyes narrow, but before he can say anything they’re interrupted by a phone ringing.

Bellamy all but leaps for it, grabbing his phone off the bed, recognizing Octavia’s name flashing across it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Bell. Have you heard anything?”

He sinks back onto the mattress, sighing.

“No. I thought-I thought maybe you were calling to tell me she’d come home.” He admits, disappointment washing over him.

“Oh.” She sounds tired, worried. He hates to admit it, but he wishes she were here. “No, sorry. But Miller’s here, there’s something he wants to tell you.”

“Miller?” He asks, puzzled. The man is a friend of Clarke’s, but if she isn’t back in Vancouver then he doesn’t see how any of them can help. “Uh, okay.”

There’s a shuffling noise as the phone is passed over, and then a much deeper voice comes over the line.

“Bellamy?”

“Miller.”

“Look, I don’t know if this is important, but I thought you should know-”

Bellamy sits up a little straighter at Miller’s urgent tone.

“-Clarke’s been getting these calls for the past few weeks, all from the same number, sometimes like ten a day.”

“What?” He doesn’t get it. “From who?”

“That’s the thing, she didn’t know. The caller never said anything, she’d just get disconnected any time she answered. I think she tried to look up the number but it just shows up as registered to Brennan Worldwide.”

“Okay…” Bellamy senses there’s more.

“When she told us about it I offered to have a friend of mine run the number through the VPD database. And he just got back to me.”

“And?”

“The calls were coming from the downtown Pan Pacific.”

“What?” Bellamy groans, exhausted. “Where O got married?”

“Yeah, looks like it. But it’s a specific line that only the concierges use, to make reservations and stuff.”

This doesn’t make any sense. It’s been a full day since he slept, and he can’t make the pieces fit together. Why would a concierge at the Pan Pacific be harassing Clarke?

“I have no fucking _clue_ what that means,” he tells Miller.

“Yeah, I figured. Look, if you want, I was thinking maybe I could take Monty and go down there. We could tell them about the phone calls and see if they know anything about it. We wouldn’t tell them about Clarke going missing, obviously, cause they’d probably lawyer up.”

Bellamy blinks. Him and Miller have never spent much time together, but Miller and Clarke must be closer than he’d realized. With a new respect for the man he’d often considered to be a bit of a jerk, and a stoner, he agrees.

“That would be great. The cops won’t do anything, because it-”

“Hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. Yeah, Octavia told me. Do you have your laptop?”

“Uh,” Bellamy glances over at it, where it sits on the nightstand. “Yeah.”

“Okay, if you can sync Clarke’s phone to it Monty can pull her call logs off the cloud. It’ll give us some times and dates to work with.”

He blinks. Clearly, there’s more to Miller than he’d realized.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

After Steven leads Clarke back to the concrete room, she passes out again. When she wakes up the smell of sick has gone from the room. Steven must have cleaned it up. The thought of him being in here with her while she sleeps makes her skin crawl.

It takes less than a minute for him to come, once she’s awake. He must be watching her somehow.

“You’re up,” he says, slipping through the door and closing it behind him.

“Apparently.” Her voice is raspy with sleep, and it doesn’t help that her mouth feels like it’s started to desiccate. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so thirsty in her life. Then she sees the bottle of water in his hand. The knife is gone, or just out of sight. “Is that for me?”

He glances down at it.

“Oh, yeah. Here.” He throws it at her, and even with her hands tied she catches it, impressing them both. It looks like those years of college softball really paid off.

She fights the urge to down the whole thing at once, knowing she’ll just end up throwing it back up. Forcing herself to take slow, short sips, she watches him. The lights have stayed on since he first showed up, and he looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, a contrast to the smooth face she remembers at the hotel. The boyish innocence is gone, too, that hangdog look replaced with something harder, and a lot more menacing.

“What now?” She wonders, itching for some semblance of control, of understanding. It gets maddening, being stuck without any clue what’s coming. To her surprise, Steven sits down, back against the wall across from her.

“You’re probably wondering how we got here,” he says slowly. Clarke gets the sense that he isn’t talking about the car ride from the hotel.

“Are you going to tell me?” She doesn’t want to play games. She likes to be the one in control, and this is making her palms sweat, having him here, completely in control, watching her like he owns her.

“Yeah,” he nods, an anticipatory smile breaking out across his face. “I’m going to tell you everything.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Steven Kolberg.”

It takes Bellamy a second to place the voice as Monty’s.

“Uh-”

“The guy that’s been calling Clarke, his name is Steven Kolberg. He was working the night of the wedding.”

Eddie shoves a cup of coffee in his face, and Bellamy takes it grudgingly. They’re still in his hotel room, though he’s finally changed out of his tux into jeans and a t-shirt. He still hasn’t slept.

“They _told_ you that?” He can’t imagine a business giving up information like that without a warrant.

“Uh,” Monty hesitates. “Not exactly. I _may_ have hacked into their payroll software.”

“You hacked it.” Bellamy repeats. Maybe he should have been more worried about the people Octavia was hanging out with. They’re all turning out to be delinquents.

Not that he minds right now.

“ _May_ have. Anyways, this guy’s shifts line up with the phone calls. And when I mentioned him the manager got all weird. Like she was afraid to talk about him.”

This news has his gut clenching anxiously. That doesn’t sound good.

When he doesn’t say anything, Monty speaks again.

“How long do you have left?”

Bellamy looks at the digital clock on the hotel nightstand.

“Two hours.” Two hours until the police will do anything, until he can convince them to subpoena the hotel’s security tapes, until-

Suddenly he has an idea.

“Monty,” he mutters, ignoring the way Eddie looks up at the suddenly hopeful tone of his voice. “Do you think you could hack into _this_ hotel’s security system?”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“I thought about you, after Maya died.”

Clarke shivers under his gaze, both wanting answers for why she’s here, why this _happened_ , and also terrified to know the truth.

“I was so lost in my grief, it felt like a part of _me_ died when she did, you know?”

“I do,” she says quietly. “I do know.”

He continues as though she hadn’t spoken.

“After a while I went to see someone, to talk. But it didn’t help.” The room is so small, the air so still that Clarke can practically feel his breath on her from here. His eyes never leave her face as he speaks, never change. They’re dead eyes, and she realizes that the sadness she saw there before was a mask. It was a lie. “They gave me some pills, and I stopped feeling anything. And that was better, that was fine.” He trails off, apparently lost in his own thoughts, his gaze finally drifting up, away from her. “But then I saw you.”

“At the hotel,” she realizes. He nods.

“Yeah. You looked so beautiful, so sad.”

She’d been missing Bellamy, aching for him. She hadn’t realized it was so obvious.

“I wasn’t supposed to be there, that night. My shift ended right after _he_ got there.” His face darkens.

“He…after who got there?” She asks, confused.

“Bellamy.” His name is a filthy curse in Steven’s mouth. “And the blonde. I’d been working all morning.”

“But-” her mouth feels dry again, so she sips at the water. “You were still there after the wedding. It must have been past midnight.”

“It was. I stayed. I wanted to see you, to talk to you.”

“Oh.” She shouldn’t be surprised, after all this is probably the least invasive thing he’s done. But she can’t help but feel like she should have known when she saw him. She’d even wondered at the fact that his shift seemed unusually long.

“It took me a while to get your phone number. And then every time I called you I didn’t know how to tell you about us. I had to make you understand.”

“That was you?” All the calls, sometimes a dozen a day, she imagines Steven on the other end, and feels her muscles coil with tension.

“At first I was calling because I wanted to talk to you. And then I realized it was the only way I could be a part of your life. I wanted to hear your voice.”

Clarke fights the shiver crawling down her spine, struggling to keep her face calm.

“But it wasn’t enough. I knew I needed a plan. I had to get you away from him.”

Him, she realizes, is Bellamy. The knowledge that it hasn’t just been her that Steven’s been watching, that Bellamy’s been caught up in it as well, that everyone she’s spent time with might have been at risk, it makes bile rise in the back of her throat. Everyone she loves. She’s put them in danger just by _being_ with them.

“You’ve been stalking me.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, Steven’s eyes narrow, jaw tensing angrily.

“I was doing what I had to. You were so blinded by your feelings for someone who doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t _want_ you. You never would have agreed to go out with me without some convincing.”

“Is that what this is?” She eyes him warily. “You convincing me?”

He shrugs, gesturing carelessly.

“No. This is…it’s not ideal, but it’s temporary. Once you’re in a more cooperative mindset we can get you out of here.”

He’s not planning to let her go, far from it. But she can’t help wondering where he’s planning on moving her to. Or how he’s planning on convincing her to go quietly.

“I brought you some clothes. I’m a _big_ fan of that dress,” Steven murmurs, eyes crawling over her. “But it doesn’t look very comfortable.” He tosses a bundle of cloth at her, and she wonders how she didn’t notice it when he came in. Then she recognizes the articles of clothing in her hands. They’re hers.

“What-” but one look at him and she doesn’t need to ask how he got these. And she can tell by his expression that he’s gauging her reaction to the realization that he broke into her loft. Probably repeatedly. So she does the stubborn thing, and puts on the best poker face she has. “Thanks.”

He shrugs.

“I’ll give you some privacy to get changed.”

She knows he can watch her, if he wants to, he’s obviously surveilling her somehow, but she’s grateful for even the pretense of decency at this point. He leaves, and the following quiet, for the first time, is a relief. She pulls the dress off, wincing as her head spins as she stands up again. The fact that she hasn’t eaten in hours, maybe days, adds an edge to her already unpleasantly woozy headache. The clothes Stephen brought are haphazard, a grey bra, some leggings, a t-shirt. But they are more comfortable than the gown, and she feels a little more like herself once she’s changed, a little more grounded.

 Her earlier sense of dread returns full force, heightened by an edginess brought on by hunger and fatigue. How the hell did she end up in this nightmare?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so once again I'm reaaally sorry for the delays with this. I posted that shorter chapter with the idea that this one would be up within a day or two, but I really didn't like the way it turned out, so I kind of fiddled with it for a few more days. To those of you still with me, the next few chapters may be a little dark/violent. If you're easily triggered you may want to be mindful of that. Then again, we are all The 100 fans, so. Dark and violent is our norm.

The pieces are falling together, and somehow it’s so much worse than she could have imagined. Because he’s been there, in her life, and she noticed. She just never connected the dots.

The missing shirts, the way sometimes she’d come home and swear something wasn’t where she left it. The phone calls.

It all seems so obvious now.

“What time is it?” She looks up at Steven as she asks, eyes heavy with fatigue. She still feels sluggish and dizzy from the concussion. He raises an eyebrow at her, twirling the blade between his fingers. After a moment’s consideration, he pulls a cellphone out of his pocket, lighting up the screen with the push of a button.

“Eleven-thirty,” he reads, monotone. She blinks.

“At night?”

“In the morning,” he tells her, pocketing the phone again. “It’s Saturday.”

So she’s been here over eighteen hours. Bellamy must have noticed her missing by now. It gives her…not hope exactly, but something. Maybe he’ll find her. Maybe someone will find her.

“How long are you going to keep me down here?” She wonders. Maybe she’s pushing it, with the questions, but she can feel the corners of her mind beginning to loosen, to blur. It’s happening faster than she’d thought. She thinks she might be starting to lose control.

Steven frowns.

“They’ll give up on you eventually, or if they don’t…” He shrugs. “We’ll just have to give them a reason to.”

Her stomach clenches at the tone of his voice.

“What do you-”

“If they find a blonde in the river with your dress, your jewelry, maybe too far gone to be recognizable…” He trails off, shrugging. Clarke’s mouth goes dry.

“So I’d be dead.” The sentence tastes metallic on her tongue, like blood. She thinks of her mother losing the only family she’s got left, her friends thinking she’s dead, Bellamy-

Bellamy would never forgive himself. Her hands curl into fists.

“Well,” Steven makes a noise of contemplation. “Maybe it won’t come to that. I’m going to get something to eat.” He stands, sheathing the knife in the waistband of his jeans. “Any requests?”

She shakes her head, still trying to process everything she’s just heard.

“Alright, I’ll surprise you.” He shoots her a quick smile, something so inherently different than his previous expression that it startles her. It almost looks…warm.

“Okay,” she whispers, watching as he leaves, the clang of the door falling shut echoing in the tiny room.

He’s a bonafide sociopath.

And Clarke is more screwed than she’d realized.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Okay, I’ve got it, um…” Monty makes a humming noise over the speaker phone while the monitor in front of Bellamy flits through several login screens. He’s essentially streaming Monty’s computer feed from back in Vancouver while the hacker breaks into the security feeds for the hotel. The screen suddenly fills with thumbnails of the various surveillance cameras for the property. “Okay, so I’ll roll them back to four pm, yesterday.”

The feed for the cameras in the lobby widen from thumbnails to fill the screen, and Bellamy watches as the people in frame dart around at twice their normal speed. Then a red dress appears.

“Wait, Monty, slow it down.”

The feed slows back down to normal, and they watch as Clarke approaches the front desk. It’s surreal, watching her like this, remembering how beautiful she’d looked, how normal everything had been only hours ago. There’s an exchange with the concierge, who eventually disappears, returning with the woman Bellamy spoke to earlier, Linda.

“That’s the manager,” he says, to no one in particular. Eddie is perched on the corner of the table beside him, eyes on the laptop screen. He hasn’t had a lot to say, but just having him around might be the reason Bellamy hasn’t completely fallen apart yet. He’s a better friend than he gets credit for sometimes.

The manager and Clarke have a brief conversation, and although Clarke’s face is obscured by the angle, Bellamy can tell by the stiff set of her shoulders that she’s irritated. Eventually, Clarke seems to dismiss her, then walks to the elevator. Bellamy thinks for a minute.

“You said she came back to check on your room? What floor is that?” Monty’s voice asks, the sound of typing echoing dully over the speaker.

“Uh, tenth, but…” He pinches the bridge of his noise, agonizing. “I didn’t see the manager give her a card key, and she didn’t have one so…try her floor. Fifth.”

The sound of typing quickens and then the screen switches to one of a hallway, the doors of the elevator in the corner of the frame. It looks like the one he picked Clarke up in earlier, but then again, they all look the same. A few seconds later the elevator doors open, and Clarke steps out.

It occurs to Bellamy, for the first time, that whatever happened to Clarke probably wasn’t good, and he’s about to watch it firsthand. His stomach clenches, an icy shot of adrenaline pulsing through his fingertips.

She swipes her cardkey, pushing her door open. It falls closed behind her, and then the feed falls still. The time stamp at the bottom is still running, but there’s no one in frame, no motion. And then the elevator doors open again. A male concierge steps out, makes a beeline for Clarke’s door. Bellamy feels a sharp pain in his palm, and looks down to see his knuckles white as his hand clutches the table top. The screw on the bottom is biting into his skin, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Loosening his grip, Bellamy lets his eyes dart back to the screen. The concierge swipes a card, pushing the door open. A growl tears out of Bellamy’s throat as the door onscreen falls shut a second time.

“Can you…” He suddenly remembers Monty can hear him. “Can you get his-” He’s about to ask if Monty can get a clear image of the man’s face, when the figure reemerges, a clearly unconscious Clarke in his arms, her head lolling sickly to the side. Bellamy stares, frozen in horror, as the man carries Clarke past the elevator, then disappears. Every ounce of hope that maybe Clarke had just run off, maybe there was another explanation, vanishes. And his chest constricts until he can’t breathe, can’t think, except-

“Where did he go?” He croaks, eyes burning into the screen, “Monty, where-”

“There’s a blindspot there, I don’t…” The hacker is clearly typing, bouncing between different cameras as the screen in front of Bellamy mirrors his own. “What’s in that corner?”

Bellamy thinks, fighting the blind panic that’s rising in his chest.

“The stairwell.”

Monty flips through camera after camera, but the man, and Clarke, are nowhere to be seen.

“Where the fuck did they go?!” Bellamy shouts, shooting to his feet.

“I can’t find them!” Monty sounds almost as desperate as he feels. “They just…disappeared!”

“People don’t just disappear!”

“I-I’m sorry, he must have ducked out into a blind spot…I’ve checked the parking lots and the basement, he just…he’s gone.”

 _She’s_ gone. But she’s not.

“We have to get this to the cops, Monty, can you-”

“Brother, how are we supposed to show this to the cops?” Eddie’s hand comes gently down on his shoulder. His voice rough from the hours of sitting quietly in the corner. “We didn’t exactly get this legally. If we wait-”

“For another hour and a half?” Bellamy asks, incredulous. “And then tip them off that they _maybe_ should check the hotel surveillance footage, and they’ll need a warrant, if we can even convince them that there’s a good reason to go after it-”

He shakes his head.

“It will take too long.” It’s not him that says it, it’s Miller, a low timbre over the speaker. “Bellamy’s right. We can’t wait for the cops to wade through their bureaucratic bullshit.”

“But what are _we_ supposed to do?” Monty asks, sounding exhausted. Perversely, it makes Bellamy feel the slightest bit comforted that he isn’t going through this alone. They’re here, deep in this, just like he is. They love her too.

But Monty’s right. That’s the question, now that they’ve reached it.

It’s up to them. At least they know where to start.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Greek salad, with grilled chicken breast.”

A plastic container lands in her lap, and Clarke looks down at it. It’s the kind of takeout salad you’d get in the deli at the grocery store, but she’s starving, and it will more than do.

“Thanks,” she acknowledges Steven with a nod, prying the lid off the salad. He holds out a plastic fork, but when she reaches for it, he pulls his hand back.

“Don’t fucking try anything,” he warns, before handing over the utensil. She stares at him, bemused.

“With a plastic fork?”

He just shrugs, settling on the floor across from her to eat his own salad.

“I see the way you look at me. You’re not ready yet, for this. You don’t trust me. So, I can’t trust you.”

It’s probably the smartest thing he’s said yet, acknowledging that she’ll come after him the first chance she gets. But it means he’s watching her, still on guard. Her mind wanders to the door at the top of the second set of stairs, where it goes. It’s the only way out, that much she knows. And if she has a shot at getting to it, she’ll need him to let his guard down.

“Steven-”

He waves a hand at her.

“It’s okay, Clarke. You need time, I get it.”

He’s right, she needs time. But she’s starting to get the feeling she might not actually have that much left.

.-.-.-.-.

“You guys are terrifying-”

Bellamy’s half admonishment, half compliment is cut off by the sound of a harsh knock on his door. He all but leaps to his feet, throwing it open before the knocking finishes. But instead of Clarke, or a cop, he finds his sister standing in the hallway, Raven behind him.

“Octavia.” He just stares, for a second, and then he’s in her arms. There have been dozens of times in their lives where he’s picked her up when something knocked her down, set her back on her feet, hugged her until the glue set enough that it would hold the pieces together. But this time it’s different. This time she’s the one holding him steady, her tiny frame the most solid thing he’s ever felt as it wraps around him.

When she lets go he’s a little dazed, but he manages to squeeze her shoulder, a silent thanks. As he steps back, the two women push past him, Raven raising an eyebrow when she sees Eddie balancing on the corner of the table. Eddie looks equally surprised to see her.

“Raven,” he says, half greeting, half confirmation.

She just nods, head obviously filled with thoughts of nothing but her missing friend.

“We got on a plane as soon as we heard, but we could only get connecting flights, and-” it’s an apology, and one he doesn’t need from his sister.

“I’m just glad you’re here.” He means it, but comes out sounding hollow. Octavia blinks.

“Do you…do we know anything?” She asks. Bellamy glances at Eddie, and suddenly Monty’s voice sounds, scaring Raven into tripping over the table leg. Eddie catches her arm before she can fall.

“Um, hey. Is that Octavia?”

Bellamy turns the laptop so it’s facing the girls, Monty’s face peering out underneath the Skype logo.

“Uh, hi.” The youngest Blake bends down to frown at the screen. “Are you going to explain what’s going on?”

Monty’s gaze flickers over to where Bellamy is still visible in the corner of the frame.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “But you’re not going to like it.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Bellamy, this isn’t…”

“I know.” He scrubs an exhausted hand against his face. “It’s not much.”

“You don’t have _anything_!”

“Raven-” Eddie reaches out, hand settling on her shoulder. It’s meant to warn as much as comfort. She shakes off both.

“No address in California, no car, we don’t have any idea where they’ve gone-”

He cracks, on his feet before he’s realized what’s happened.

“Don’t you think I _know_ that?” He bellows, face an inch from hers. “Don’t you think I’m kicking myself right now for asking her to come in the first place? You think this is _fun_ for me, sitting here, watching this video over and over, knowing she’s out there with him while he does god knows what-”

Octavia reaches for him but he shrugs her away, shaking.

“He won’t have tried to cross the border with her, that’s way too risky.” Monty pipes up, still hooked in via Skype. “He can’t have gone far, not if she’s-” He breaks off suddenly. But they all know what the end of that sentence was.

“And you’re _sure_ he doesn’t have any registered properties here?”

“There’s nothing under Steven Kolberg. I’ve checked.” Monty tells him.

Octavia makes a startled noise, and Bellamy stares at her. Her mouth is drawn, eyes tired.

“What?” He asks.

“Bell,” she says softly. “Someone has to tell Abby.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He’s not sure why he volunteered. Octavia would have done it, or Raven. Someone who isn’t already fraying at the seams with fear, feet dangling over the edge. But it feels personal, this is all his fault, and he just-

He’ll do it.

He calls Abby, heart pounding a little harder with every ring.

“Hello?”

“Abby, hi.” He clears his throat, wondering if she can hear the worry already. “It’s Bellamy.”

“Oh,” She sounds surprised, but not unpleasantly so. That only makes him feel worse. “How were the Emmys? I watched them, with Marcus. I’m sorry you didn’t win.” Her words are genuine, he can tell, and he’s always gotten the sense that those are rare from Clarke’s mother.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It took a while for her to warm up to him once Clarke told her mother they were dating, but eventually Abby developed a grudging respect for Bellamy’s undeniable devotion to her daughter.

And now he has to tell her what he’s done.

“I-there’s something I need to tell you about Clarke.” His voice is shaking, and he only prays she can’t hear it.

‘Okay,” suspicion is finally creeping into her tone, but she doesn’t interject.

“She went back to the hotel partway through the ceremony to deal with a problem, and she…” his mouth is suddenly so dry he can’t form the words, can’t make a sound.

“Bellamy.” Abby’s voice is sharp now. “Is my daughter alright?”

“She-” the words are acidic coming up, like bile. “She’s missing. Abby, she was abducted from the hotel.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Breaking the news to Clarke’s mother was awful. But they come out of it with more information, and that’s something Bellamy wasn’t expecting.

Clarke had treated a woman named Maya during her internship, it was the first surgery she’d ever scrubbed in on. The patient didn’t make it.

Steven Kolberg was her boyfriend.

“You remember that?” Bellamy had asked, a little incredulous Abby could so easily pull those names from the top of her head.

“Of course I remember.” She’d replied, angry. At him, maybe, at the situation, probably. Mostly at the man who took her daughter, Bellamy imagines. “Maya Campbell was the first patient that ever died on Clarke’s table. It took her quite a while to recover.”

“So he just, what, he blames her? And he waited three years to get her for it?” Raven asks now, shaking her head. “That’s insane.”

“Sure it is.” Eddie shrugs. “But it could also be true.”

“He might…” Bellamy tries to relax his hands, which have curled so tightly into fists his fingers are beginning to go numb. “He might have a different agenda.”

The others in the room turn to look at him.

“Like…what?” Octavia asks, warier than before.

“Abby said he got pretty attached to Clarke. She sat with him and held his hand afterwards, for hours. Apparently he even showed up at the hospital a few times but Clarke was usually in surgery so they never told her about it.”

“So he’s in love with her or something?” Octavia asks, brow furrowed.

“Or something,” Bellamy mutters. This whole thing is a nightmare, literally. He’s had it more than once, that dream where something happens to Clarke, and he’s too late. He’s always too late.

But those are just dreams, and that can’t happen this time.

“Wait-” Monty’s voice drifts over from the laptop, and Bellamy blinks. He’d almost forgotten they were still connected. “Bellamy, what did Abby say the girlfriend’s name was?”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He doesn’t come back for a while.

Clarke takes the time to steel her nerve, to try and put some pieces together. She doesn’t know where she is, or what time it is now, though she guesses by now it’s evening.

She knows Steven is deranged, and a sociopath. That’s bad.

She knows Steven thinks they’re meant to be together, which might buy her some time. If he loves her, or wants her, or whatever human emotion he may be capable of feeling toward her, he won’t kill her.

For now, anyways.

Her head feels worse now than ever, and she longs to lay down and close her eyes, but she wouldn’t sleep anyways. It’s impossible now, now that she knows he’s watching. She needs a plan. But just as the fog clears out of her thoughts long enough for her to begin analyzing her situation, the door opens again. Steven enters, looking displeased.

“People are looking for you.”

She blinks.

“What-”

“Blake filed a police report, you’re officially missing.”

Oh. She’d figured he would, he knows her well enough to know she would never just run off on him like that, not during something so important.

“They won’t find me, though.” She says slowly, eyeing him, reading his mood. “Will they?”

His lips quirk, a hint of a smile, self-satisfied and smug though it may be.

“Oh,” he locks eyes with her. “They’ll find you. In the bottom of a river, face burned off. They’ll recognize the dress.”

 They’ll test the body, she thinks. If this is Steven’s plan to get the cops to stop looking for her, to close the case, it won’t work. They’ll figure out it’s not her.

But how much damage will it do to the people she loves before then?

.-.-.-.-.-.

He does it.

Clarke knows, because he tells her, and she has no reason at this point not to believe him. She thinks of Bellamy, and her mother, and wonders where the body came from.

Steven only looks mildly bemused when she leans forward and empties her stomach back onto the concrete in front of her.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“Bellamy-”

“In a second, Octavia.”

“Bellamy!” She shoves at him again, and he spins to glare at her, a little wobbly on his feet. It’s been days since he slept. The cops are out looking; he filed the police report and gave them what little information they could without invalidating the evidence they know exists. It’s Monday now, Clarke’s been gone for three days, and he’s starting to lose his mind. He needs her here, in his hands, needs to see her, because the images of her in his head are starting to fall victim to his nightmares.

“What?” He snaps, noting the dark circles under his sister’s eyes for the first time. He’s sure they match his own. Something else is wrong, though, in her eyes. They look haunted, the hope he’d seen in them for the past few days, the thing that has kept him going through all this, it’s gone. His heart plummets. “Octavia, what?”

“They found her.” She mumbles. “Bell, they-” She breaks off, shaking her head, and he feels sick, but it’s not true, it’s not her, Clarke is going to be _fine_ \- “They found her at the bottom of the river.”

Her words morph into a silence that roars deafening in his ears, they don’t make sense for as long as his brain can block their meaning, but eventually, they break through.

“No.” He shakes his head. “That’s impossible, it’s not-”

“Bell-” a hand comes down on his arm.

“It’s not her!” He backs up, shaking his head, not really seeing her, not really seeing anything but Clarke’s face, grinning up at him as he flicks one of her earrings in the hotel elevator.

“The dress…” Octavia trails off. “She was wearing it. The same one.” Her face is a mask, and it occurs to him that she’s probably struggling to keep it together for his sake, but he can’t really comprehend what she’s saying. That can’t be right.

“I need to see her.” He’ll show them that they’re wrong. Octavia and Raven glance at each other, and Eddie just looks between them, then at Bellamy.

“I’m not sure that’s-”

“Octavia.” Bellamy’s knuckles crack as his fists curl violently at his sides. His voice vibrates in the silent tension of the room, and even he can hear the note of hysteria in it. “I need to see her.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends.
> 
> You may have noticed that the number of chapters for this story has gone from 25 back to "?". That is because this story will NOT behave and refuses to end. Anyways, I want to take this moment to remind you that this chapter and probably the next now come with a minor gore/violence warning.
> 
> That is all, enjoy :)

Clarke knows this place. She looks around, studying the Cherrywood pews around her, the wreath of white flowers beside the altar at the front of the room. The sad, heavy silence is familiar too.

Glancing to her right, she sees Eddie.

“What are we doing here?” She asks him, voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge her at all. Assuming he didn’t hear her, she tries again, raising her voice. “Eddie?”

This time, when he doesn’t even blink, she knows something is wrong. The quiet here, it’s so still, like everyone in the room is holding their breath.

Someone clears their throat up at the altar. Clarke turns toward it, and her stomach clenches. Bellamy’s standing there, in a tux she recognizes, the last thing she saw him wearing. He’s a little overdressed, she thinks, but when she glances down at herself she realizes she’s wearing the red dress from that night too. His mouth opens slightly, and suddenly she doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to know why they’re here, doesn’t want to know who’s laying in that glossy wooden box resting behind the mountain of flowers. But she can’t move.

And then he speaks.

“Clarke was-” he breaks off, clearing his throat again. “She was…”

His eyes wander, falling on where she now sits in the pew beside Eddie. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t acknowledge her there, just stares like he’s looking right through her. Then he reaches inside his jacket, and when his hand emerges, it’s wrapped around something black and shiny. Clarke can’t really see it that well from here, but she knows what it is. He holds the gun to his temple, and his eyes are _burning_ into hers, she can feel the pain and the anger radiating like a blue flame between them.

She tries to get to her feet, to do something, but she’s still frozen to the spot.

“No.” She says, and it comes out in a whisper. “No, don’t, Bellamy don’t-” She turns to Eddie. “Eddie, stop him, you have to do something. Eddie-”

The shot rings out while her head is turned, and she hears the body hit the floor.

When she forces herself to turn back, to see what he’s done, he’s gone. But there’s a picture on the altar now, one of him. She remembers taking it; his glasses perched low on his nose, eyes wide with surprise. She’d taken it on one of the nights when he was reading through his notes on Archer Collins, and he’d done what he always does when she tries to distract him from work - rolled his eyes and gone right back to it. She’s never told him this, but that picture was the wallpaper on her phone for weeks after he first left for Toronto.

 As she stares at it, the glass breaks, a crack splintering out across the pane like a lick of frost. She can’t look away, even though she knows something terrible is coming, even as something dark begins slowly to ooze out of the crack. Blood trickles down the photo, pooling at the bottom of the frame until it spills over onto the altar.

“No.” She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut, something shattering in her chest. “No, no, no-”

.-.-.-.-.

Gasping, she blinks. The funeral parlous is gone, the concrete walls of her cell have returned. Relief floods her like adrenaline, coursing warmth through her veins as she leans back against the wall, panting. It was just a dream. Bellamy’s fine. And then she remembers what Steven has done.

And Clarke can’t help but wonder, is he really fine?

Is she?

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Abby is flying out. She needs to be the one to ID the body because-

Well. Bellamy’s not family. He never got the chance.

He needs to respect that, he knows, there’s a proper procedure and Abby is Clarke’s mother and it’s not right that he demand to see her just because he thinks- _knows_ -they’ve made a mistake. The cops are saying they can’t release the details, and the looks they exchange every time he asks makes his stomach turn with dread. There’s something he doesn’t know, something they won’t tell him. He’s sure of it.

Still, they’re all there, at the hospital, because that’s where the morgue is. With a jolt, he realizes this is where all of this started. Not this hospital exactly, but one just like it. That night Clarke reached out to someone who was grieving. Clarke who cared in that pure and tireless way.

And it got her here. Cold and lifeless on a slab of metal somewhere below his feet.

“Lincoln’s gonna come.”

Bellamy glances over at his sister, having almost forgotten she was there. He keeps expecting her to do something, like cry or scream or grab one of these cops by the lapels and demand some answers. That’s just as much her style as his. But he forgets sometimes how much that one year changed her, the one where she bounced in and out of hospitals with the same frequency that she bounced in and out of clubs. There were times he didn’t think she was going to make it, and she’d lost more than one friend to the scene. He asked her about it, once, when he was driving her home from one of those funerals.

_“A warrior doesn’t mourn the dead until the war is over.”_

That’s what she’d said. He was never really sure what it meant, but he can see it in her now, that refusal to give in to the grief, the feeling that someone else is more important.

“Okay,” he says, because she probably needs her husband there, and at least there will be someone to take care of her. He can’t do it. He can’t even hold a thought for longer than a few seconds before it’s gone. He can only keep telling himself this is all a mistake for so long before the words lose all their meaning. He needs something solid. He needs _proof_.

“I’m gonna get some coffee.” Eddie stands abruptly, startling Raven. “And food. We all need to eat.”

Bellamy has no plans to eat, couldn’t stomach anything anyways, but he knows it would be pointless to argue. He just shrugs. When Eddie turns toward the cafeteria, Raven glances at the siblings.

“Go,” Bellamy says, a little hoarsely. “I’m fine.”

He’s not, but.

She nods, hurrying after the blonde. When they’re both out of earshot, Octavia speaks again.

“I’m worried about you.”

He blinks. It’s unlike her to voice something so obvious.

“You’re in denial and it’s not-it’s not healthy, Bell. I know you might need some time to process, but are you sure you want to see her? You don’t want to remember her like this.” He can feel her eyes on the side of his face, can picture her expression perfectly without having to see it.

“I’m not in denial, O. It’s not her. I can _feel_ it. I know that-look I know how it sounds, okay?” He can’t meet her eyes, can’t stand to see the pity there. “She’s still out there,” he whispers. “I still need to find her.”

Octavia doesn’t say anything after that.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“You’ve been found.”

Clarke’s head jerks up, and she gapes at Steven. He’s not saying-

“Oh,” he takes in her shocked expression with irritation. “No, not _you_. They found the body, dredged it from the river.”

“Right.” The hope that had been so foolishly building dissolves. Behind her eyes, the scene from her nightmare plays out again. She keeps seeing it.

They’ll test the body, especially if he’s...well, Clarke doesn’t want to think about the specifics of what Steven might have done to disguise the body in the river as hers, but if there’s no face to ID, they’ll test it. She knows that.

Vaguely, she wonders how much time it will buy them. Not much. A few days, probably, maybe a week. The labs for these kinds of things are always slow, and her mother has no pull out here in California to call in favors. So for a week, that’s her laying in the morgue.

Steven hasn’t demanded much of her so far, but she imagines that will only last so long. At some point he’ll want more than cooperation, and Clarke has yet to come up with any plan short of rushing him the second he comes in the doo. She knows the idea is a bad one, probably ends with a knife in her side, so she’s been conservative. But she’s starting to think she’d rather die trying to get out of here than live indefinitely, caged like an animal, at the whim of someone completely deranged.

One day soon the cost of a failed escape won’t seem so high to her. So for now, she waits.

.-.-.-.-.

It takes Abby twelve hours. The flight itself is short, just 3 hours along the coast, but getting something so last minute is-

Well, a surprising amount of people aren’t willing to give up their seat so a mother can ID her daughter’s corpse, apparently.

She arrives like a lightning storm, all manic energy and swirling brown hair, and Bellamy gets it, he does, why people are so afraid of Dr. Abigail Griffin. Marcus Kane is there too, the man Clarke has begun referring to as “not-not my stepfather”. Abby knows hospitals. She runs one. She has the information she needs within fifteen minutes of arriving, minus the more sensitive, confidential details. When she strides up to Bellamy, an almost permanent looking shock in her eyes, he half expects her to slap him.

Instead, she draws him into a bone crushing hug.

He returns it, if only because he feels responsible for all of this, but it burns a little in his guilt, like a sinner plunging their arms into a vat of holy water.

When she pulls away, he can’t bring himself to tell her what he knows. He can’t put that burden on her, the excruciating hope.

“I’m so-” he chokes on it a little. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says. And through all the holes in the woman in front of him, he can tell that she means that.

A cop approaches them, one Bellamy recognizes from when they first got here.

“You’re Mrs. Griffin?” He asks. Abby nods, though Bellamy knows she has a habit of correcting anyone who doesn’t refer to her as Doctor. “Are you ready?” Again, she just nods. Her hand, he notices, holds fast to Kane’s.

Bellamy itches to follow them when they trail behind the cop as he leads them to the elevator. But he wasn’t invited, and he won’t push. He suspects the elder Griffin is brittle in this moment, one false move and she’ll shatter like glass. As the metal doors close behind them, all he can think of is the tape, of Steven Kolberg carrying an unconscious Clarke from her room.

Bellamy’s never been a bloodthirsty man. But suddenly he finds himself thinking that once this is over, Kolberg’s not going to make it to prison.

.-.-.-.-.

Steven lets her wash. There’s no shower, but he gives her two timed minutes in the bathroom with some soap and a wash cloth, and Clarke gets a little of herself back when she’s finished. She rinses her mouth with soap, wincing at the bitterness of it. Her face stares back from the mirror when she straightens up, and it’s like looking at a shadow of herself. Purple drags deep beneath her eyes from the exhaustion, she’s almost sickly pale, and it’s only been a few days. There’s a carelessness behind her eyes that unnerves her, like an omen of the complete surrender that’s to come.

Clarke’s never been one to give up before, but she can still feel the tugging in her mind, like a loose thread threatening to unravel. When Steven yells that her time is up, and she hears the metallic rasp of the doorknob being turned, she shakes her head.

She’s getting out of here. And if she dies trying, she’s taking him with her.

.-.-.-.-.-.

When Bellamy sees Abby emerge from the elevator, he shoots to his feet.

And then he sees her face.

It’s pale, tinged green, eyes shuttered like there’s nothing but a hollow space behind them. Even Kane looks lost, though he’s holding her steady as she stumbles down the hallway.

Obviously alarmed, Raven jumps to her feet, rushing over to them. Beside him, Octavia slowly turns her head, gauging his reaction.

He walks toward them, wary. As he draws closer, his body tenses. Everything about Abby is screaming “ _it’s her, it’s Clarke”._

“Abby-” She looks up at him. “Is-”

“Her-” she clears her throat, straightening. For a moment, she resembles the woman she was before any of this happened. “They think it’s her. But her…her face is gone.”

He just stares.

“Her-” His own voice is gravel at this point, the blood draining from his head. “What do you-”

Kane shakes his head, a warning. He needs to back off.

“Can I see her?”

Abby blinks.

“I…I don’t care, Bellamy.” She’s almost translucent, the way she’s fading away as all of it sinks in. Kane frowns.

“Son, are you sure you want to? It’s-you don’t want to remember her like that.”

He jerks his head, half shrug, half dismissal.

“I have to,” he says. And that Kane seems to understand. Bellamy peers over his shoulder, spotting the cop who’d taken Abby and Kane down to the morgue. He makes his way over, numbly aware of the way his muscles are coiled so tensely that it’s difficult to walk. “I want to see her,” he mutters again. The words are wrong; he doesn’t want to see this, whoever it is.

But he needs to know.

The cop glances back at Abby, who just nods vacantly, then shrugs.

“Okay. But I have to warn you, it’s pretty bad.”

“I’ve heard.” He can’t picture it, but-

Soon he won’t have to.

“Alright.” The cop waves over a dark haired man in a white coat and leads Bellamy to the elevator, pressing the button for B2. The ride is silent, Bellamy’s stomach rolling, his arms shaking. He sees her face, that smile in the elevator, the laughter in her eyes. With a sick jolt, he realizes that will all be gone. Her smile, the curve of her cheeks, the birthmark above her lips.

 _It’s not her_ , he reminds himself.

The ding pulls him out of his head, back to the elevator as the doors open. He follows the uniform in front of him, they take a sharp right and then there’s a frosted glass door in front of him that says _Morgue_. He can’t feel his fingers, is relieved when the doctor swipes a pass and reaches for the handle. There are three tables, two with white sheets draped over distinctly human shapes. It’s cold, but he knows the goosebumps aren’t really from that.

They stop in front of the first shape, the sheet rising unsubtly where he imagines her chest is.

“We haven’t done an autopsy yet, so she’s, uh, she’s still wearing what we found her in.”

He nods.

“I don’t know what her mother told you but she looks…quite shocking. Her face has been removed.” The doctor speaks with a clinical detachment, something Clarke had never been very good at, Bellamy knows. It’s one of the reasons she struggled so much in her residency.

“They told me,” he replies, lips numb from the cold.

The doctor glances at him once more, reading him, Bellamy supposes. Then the sheet is gone, and he can’t breathe.

It’s-

They were right. It’s the dress. That’s the first thing he sees, and it hits him with all the force of a baseball bat to the stomach.

And then he sees her face.

Or lack of it, really, the red and white sheets of muscle over bone, yellow streaks of fat running under the place where her cheeks were. And beside it, so innocuous next to the horror of her exposed jaw, a single turquoise drop hangs from her ear.

He spins on his heel, vomiting into the shallow metal sink beside the table. The other men in the room avert their eyes, for the sake of discretion, probably, and wait until he’s done.

Even when there’s nothing left, his stomach heave. Eventually it seems to subside, though the nausea stays. Slowly, fearfully, he turns back toward the body.

The voice in the back of his head persists; _it’s not her_ , but for the first time, he pushes it away.

And then he notices her arm.

The doctor has begun to lift the sheet back up, to cover her.

“Wait.” Bellamy holds out his hand, and the doctor freezes. Gingerly, Bellamy steps forward, leaning down to look more closely at the pale arm, at the perfectly smooth spot on her forearm just beyond the bump of her wrist bone. “There’s no…” he straightens up, turning to the doctor. “There’s no scar here. Clarke has a scar on her arm from when she cut herself with a palette knife.”

The other men exchange a look.

“Son, I know this is difficult,” the cop takes a step towards him and Bellamy shakes his head.

“No, you’re not listening to me.” He snaps. “This isn’t her. Clarke has a scar right there, I used to tell her it was exactly the shape of the Corona Borealis. _This isn’t her_.”

This time the doctor frowns, leaning in toward the body.

“You’re sure it wasn’t the other arm?” He asks, as though Bellamy doesn’t have every inch of Clarke memorized.

“I’m sure,” Bellamy says roughly. He glances at the other arm, just to appease the doctor. “But there’s nothing here either, anyway.” The man leans in, studying both arms, then looks back up at him.

“You realize what you’re saying,” he says slowly, like he thinks Bellamy might just be the type to get a kick out of giving a grieving mother false hope.

“It’s not her,” Bellamy repeats, and this time it feels heavier on his lips, this time it comes with another question. “It’s not Clarke.”

.-.-.-.-.

“Who do you think will speak at your funeral?” Steven asks from where he leans against the door, arms folded casually across his chest. He must feel big, like this, completely in control.

Clarke looks up, meets his eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says. “My friends, probably.” She’s thinking of Raven, but won’t say her name. She doesn’t want to give Steven any more information than he already has. “Maybe my old boss.”

“You don’t seem very concerned,” he points out. She resists the urge to sink her nails into his eyes and grits her teeth.

“What does it matter?” She wonders. “I’m dead. What do I care who speaks at my funeral?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“What,” she frowns. “-being dead?”

He nods.

“Would it bother _you_?” Her words have more of an edge to them than she’d intended, coloring the question as a threat. She needs to be more subtle than that, but as the days go on her patience is waning. He grins.

“Would you speak at my funeral?”

She eyes him carefully, face neutral.

“If it were up to me, you’d be thrown in a hole and left for the animals.”

His face changes, tightens. When his leg swings out, she doesn’t see it coming.

Later, she rubs gingerly at her waist, feeling the slight crackling sensation as she takes a deep breath.

The broken ribs are worth it, though.

She’s done cooperating.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“You’re-are you _sure_?”

People keep asking him that, and he wants to shout _Yes, yes I’m sure, I know every inch of Clarke’s skin like the back of my hand. I’ve kissed that scar a hundred times. I’m sure!_

But this time it’s Abby, so he just nods.

“I’m positive.”

She sinks into Marcus beside her, sagging against him as her face crumples. If possible, she looks even more wrecked than she did fifteen minutes ago, when she thought her daughter was dead.

Now-

It’s possible. It’s possible Clarke is alive. Bellamy knows that this body being someone else doesn’t grant any guarantees.

“Then who is that?” Abby asks suddenly, almost to herself. “And- _where’s Clarke?_ ”

And isn’t that the question.

.-.-.-.

“I’ve tried _every_ iteration of Maya’s name, combined with Steven’s, there’s no property here that’s registered to them, nothing within a hundred miles.”

Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling.

“Alright, so, what about Clarke, or-” He stumbles as he paces, shoulder crashing into the wall of the hotel room. “Shit,” he grumbles, rubbing at it as pain sears through his arm.

“You need to sleep.” Eddie says. Bellamy grunts in disagreement, taken by surprised. He’s been waiting for someone to say that, but-he’d expected it to be one of the girls.

He’s napped, for an hour here or there, usually by accident, but he hasn’t really slept since Clarke was taken. The double vision started a day ago, and he can’t really feel his extremities anymore. Eddie’s probably right, but Bellamy just-he can’t. He can’t sleep knowing she’s out there, wondering if she’s hurt, if she’s alive, what Kolberg is doing to her.

“I’m serious, we’re not going to get anywhere with you like this. We need your brain, man.”

Bellamy moves to interrupt him, but Eddie holds up a hand.

“I’ll wake you up if anything changes. Even if it’s something small. I _promise_.”

He wants to refuse, but he also knows his friend is right.

“Anythi-” he begins, and Octavia grabs him by the shoulder, guiding him to the bed.

“Bell, we’ll wake you up. Just get a little sleep.”

The second his head hits the pillow he does.

Later, he’ll think that he should have expected the nightmares.

.-.-.-.-.-

The first time she opened her mouth against him, Clarke didn’t realize she was flipping a switch in her captor. Once the violence starts, it doesn’t stop. She’s not a guest here anymore, not even in Steven’s deranged mind.

 _Act like a prisoner_ , he tells her, _and you’ll be treated like one_.

She’s broken his heart, he tells her that too, when he finally comes back after the first time he kicked her in the stomach, leaving her winded and gasping in a ball on the floor.

“You did this, you know. You could’ve just-” He inhales sharply. “But you didn’t. I tried to give you time, to let you come around, and you’re not _trying!_ ” The back of his hand connects with her cheekbone, sending spots of light dancing across her vision. The temptation to beg, to apologize, surfaces again. But she won’t. If Steven is finished pretending, so is she.

She can take it. And if she can’t-

Then at least it’s over.

“You’re sick,” she groans, over the ringing in her ears. “You need professional help.”

He shakes his head.

“The _professionals_ , I saw them, and they can’t help me. But you could have, you could have helped, we could have gotten through this-” He shakes his head. “This isn’t my fault.”

He’s losing his grip with reality, she can see it. The careful control is gone, replaced with something far worse, unraveling mania.

 “I couldn’t.” It’s her turn to shake her head. “I was never that kind of doctor and I’m-I’m not a doctor anymore anyways. I can’t help you.”

He laughs.

“You can’t help anyone, can you Clarke?” All the mirth drains from his face, leaving pure disgust behind. Whatever pedestal he’d had her on before, it’s clearly gone now. “You couldn’t help Maya.”

She winces. Sociopath or not, it’s a low blow.

“I’m sorry about Maya.” She says painfully. “I’m so-”

But his old lover’s name on her lips seems to be too much for him. With a scream of rage, his fist comes down on her temple, and with it, instant blackness.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I've been bad with the updating and all, and that I always say sorry for being bad with the updating and all, but I kind of got diagnosed with a chronic illness, so. I've been dealing with that.
> 
> But guys, this chapter is over 10k words. I'm trying to make it up to you, here. You'll notice that I took Crowsfan's suggestion and edited my story summary to reflect that this story took a turn from the typical roommates AU. I've also changed the tags a bit. 
> 
> This isn't the last chapter, but the next chapter will mostly be tying up loose ends. A lil more angst, but mostly fluff and exposition. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you guys are still with me, I can't believe this is almost 100k. What a whopper.

“Bellamy.”

He groans, images of blonde hair tangled with seaweed playing behind his eyes.

“Bell, wake up.”

He jolts upright, blinking as panic sweeps through him.

“What?” He rasps. “What happened?”

His sister is hovering above the bed, face unreadable.

“We think we found her.”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, his exhausted brain struggling to take them in. When they finally hit, he leaps out of bed.

“What do you- _where_?”

Eddie gestures at the laptop, where Miller and Monty are frowning out at him.

“There’s a property registered under the name Maya Elizabeth in El Monte, we think that might be where they are.”

Bellamy rubs tiredly at his eyes. Miller pipes up.

“Elizabeth is-”

“Clarke’s middle name.” Bellamy grunts, cutting him off. “Yeah. So,” he turns to look at Eddie. “-what are we waiting for?”

Eddie opens his mouth, hesitating.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but…we can’t exactly go barging into someone’s house looking for her. That’s illegal.”

Not quite able to process what he’s hearing, Bellamy gets to his feet, anger simmering under his skin.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s illegal,” he tells them, because if that isn’t _obvious_ -

“We’re not _sure_ , Bellamy.” That’s Monty, his voice soft over the speaker. “We were just pulling some satellite images for the block that the house is on. There’s a traffic cam too, on the corner of the street, but we can’t pull the footage for that without breaking into the DMV database and it’s just-it’s taking a while.”

“We don’t _have_ a while. If you’re all so opposed to breaking the law I’ll go by myself”, he says coldly, reaching out to grab his jacket off the back of his chair, but Raven’s hand comes down on his wrist.

“We’re not saying we’re not going to do something,” she says shortly. “But we need to know what we’re up against. If we’re wrong then it won’t help Clarke to go blindly charging into the wrong place. I know you want to get her back, Bellamy, but you need to stop acting like you’re the _only_ one who does.”

He stills, eyeing her, gaze shifting to Octavia, and then Monty and Miller. They all look worn out, worn down, exactly how he feels. Raven’s right. He knows that, but-

“I can’t do nothing.” He mumbles, and the amount of obvious pain that comes tumbling out with the words makes him wince. “I just-it’s been over a week and I can’t-” It seems impossible to put it into words, the way every time he closes his eyes he sees her, the way he’s terrified, every second of every day that they _will_ find her, exactly like the first girl, with her smile gone and her eyes closed. That feeling you get, when your chair tips just a little too far back and the bottom drops out of your stomach. But it never goes away. He’s just hanging there, midair, waiting for the fall.

But even those words aren’t enough, really, for the sheer desperation he feels knowing she’s out there, knowing she’s in danger. So he shakes his head and tries to ignore the looks being exchanged around the room.

“We’re not going to do nothing.” Octavia murmurs, jumping in. “But we just-we need a plan, Bell. If this is where Kolberg took her then we need cops or-I mean we need _something_.”

She’s right, too. He can feel himself deflating, and he misses the indignance, the anger. As it drains away he’s left with the same hollow sense of terror as before.

The laptop dings, and it takes Bellamy a moment to realize the sound came from the other end of their Skype call. Monty makes a noise of surprise, and then the sound of him typing fills the silence in the room, echoing a little over the long-distance connection.

“There are a few images-we, uh, pulled a few pictures of Kolberg off of his facebook profile to run against the satellite images from the property in El Monte. To see if we could place him on that property at all.” Monty is filling them in as he types, obviously distracted by whatever else he’s doing. “It’s not residentially zoned, there’s a building that looks like a…I don’t even know how to describe it. I’ll send the picture to you guys.”

There’s a slight delay, and Miller mutter something to Monty while the file is transferring that Bellamy can’t hear. It opens automatically when it finishes loading, and he squints at the screen.

The image quality isn’t great, Monty has obviously zoomed pretty far in, but he can see the structure they’re talking about. It’s a tall, narrow, gray building with a domed top, nestled beside an unassuming white house. Both buildings are surrounded by yellowing grass, and a long gravel driveway disappears out of frame, leading to what Bellamy can only assume is the access road.

“I thought you said it wasn’t residentially zoned,” he says, eyes locked on the picture, wondering if that’s where Clarke is at this very moment.

“It’s not,” Miller answers immediately. “It’s zoned for agriculture. But it’s not like people can’t have farmhouses on their own property.”

“It’s a farm?” Bellamy asks, and he’s not sure why, but the thought makes him feel a little ill.

“It…used to be,” Monty says, still typing. “Best we can tell is that it hasn’t really been used for much in years. The title was transferred from someone named Felix Soltano eight months ago.”

“So that’s…” Eddie frowns at the image. “-what, a grain silo or something?”

Miller makes a noise of surprise.

“Yeah, that would make sense,” Monty agrees. “Weird that the house was built so close to it, but it must have been added after they stopped using the silo.”

It doesn’t look particularly new, but Bellamy supposes the silo could have been defunct for decades anyways. He’s about to ask Miller what their plan is, if they all want back-up so badly who exactly they’re planning to call. But he’s been complacent in this game long enough. It’s time for him to make a choice.

“We knew when we pulled that footage from the hotel that we’d be doing this at an arms-length from the cops,” he says slowly, and five pairs of eyes drift towards him. “And I’m not saying we don’t need them but waiting for them to get a warrant isn’t really an option. It’s been eight days. They’ve already found one body and he won’t-” he grinds his teeth at the image that pops into his mind. “-Kolberg’s not just going to keep her stashed safely in a farmhouse forever.”

Raven lets out a sharp breath.

“Clarke won’t exactly sit on her ass forever either,” she grumbles, and it sounds like she’s agreeing with him. “You know her. No way any of this is happening without a fight.”

“That,” Bellamy mutters darkly, “-is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

There’s a particular smell that always hangs in the air after a summer rain on concrete. Bellamy told her, one particularly hot afternoon, when the steam was still rising from the pavement, that there’s a word for it. Petrichor.

Having lived in the perpetually rainy Vancouver all her life, Clarke knows it well.

She can smell it now, damp and ashy and gorgeously familiar. It smells like home. As she wanders down the sidewalk, trees of rich emerald green glistening wetly beside her, she knows this is a dream. But the mist looks real as it rises and swirls among her ankles, and the moist warmth of the air feels real, too.

It’s lovely, and bright, and though she can’t remember why, she knows the reality on the other side of her eyelids is dim and gray.

The dream will turn though. They always do now.

Surely enough, she comes to an intersection, two roads crossing at a four-way stop, and she pauses at the dip in the corner of the sidewalk. Glancing both ways, she sets one foot onto the quickly drying road, and then another.

She’s halfway across when she hears it, never gets a chance to see it.

Tires screech, an engine hums and then growls as they try to swerve around her. They won’t make it, though. Clarke only has dreams that end one way now. The impact comes to her right hip, and the world spins in slow motion as she’s thrown into the middle of the street. The asphalt is still wet when it comes up to meet her, tearing jagged lines along her palms and cheek as she skids across it. There’s a pain that she knows, that suffocating weight on her chest that tells her this will all be over soon, and then the driver stands over her.

“God, I’m-I’m so sorry.” He gasps, leaning over her so that the sun halos his head. She can’t see his face from this angle, cast completely in shadow. But something about his voice is familiar.

“It’s okay,” she breathes, though the words don’t come easy. She’s at peace with this. She dies every time she closes her eyes, and yet these stopped feeling like nightmares a few days ago.

Then the man kneels beside her, and when the sun hits his face the pain in her chest explodes.

“Dad,” she croaks, the tears pooling under her cheek to mix with the blood and rainwater.

“Baby I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you,” Jake mumbles, the regret obvious on his face. The words wrench excruciatingly on her heart.

“I know,” she murmurs quietly, her voice barely a wheeze. “I know, Dad.”

For a moment they just sit like that, Jake lifting her head into his lap, his tears joining her own as parts of the dream world around her begin to distort. She’s going to wake up soon.

“I miss you,” she says, because she won’t get another chance. Even if it’s not real, she needs to say it.

“I know, sweetheart.” Jake replies, blue eyes that match hers soft and sad. “I miss you too.”

“Maybe I-” she hesitates, weighing the words. “Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

His face changes, and suddenly it’s Bellamy looking down at her, dark curls falling into his face as he stares down at her.

“Clarke, don’t.”

She blinks, fingers twitching where her hand lays open on the road. He slips his fingers in hers, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccups, fully crying now. “But I miss him, Bell. And I’m so _tired_.”

She is, too. She’s asleep right now and she can still feel it, the sluggishness that’s been slowly creeping in from her fingertips over the past few days.

He shakes his head.

“Just hold on, okay? I need you to-I need you.”

Slowly, she nods.

“Okay.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

When she wakes up, she’s not expecting the wave of emotion that hits.

But she’s still raw from the dream and-something about it, it’s like losing her father all over again. She clutches at her chest, like maybe she can physically _hold_ the pieces together as it feels like they’re splintering off into a million tiny shards. She thinks of Bellamy’s glass cabinet, of Jake’s funeral. She thinks of her father’s funeral, of Finn’s.

For the first time since she’s been here, she cries. She hasn’t missed her father like this since he first passed, and she wants to curl up there on the concrete and die just so maybe she can see him again. Clarke isn’t a religious person, doesn’t believe in the afterlife, which has made the losses in her life hit her all the harder for their permanence. But she just-it’s hard, sometimes, to wrap her brain around the notion that everything that once was Jake Griffin has rotted and bled back into the earth.

She thinks of Bellamy’s face, pleading her not to give up, and it feels like such a _big_ thing to ask of her. It’s only been maybe a week, that she’s been stuck in this pit, cut off from the world, but it feels like months. Being alone will do that to you. Being stuck in this place with no sense of time, no sense of anything, it could have been years in her mind.

Her head pounds from the crying. There are probably fewer parts of her body that don’t hurt now than ones that do, as Steven’s demons take over his mind, over his fists. The pain in her chest is the worst though, and she almost savors it for a moment, just because it’s different.

She may have agreed to continue to try for Bellamy in her dream, but if she doesn’t make a break to get out of here soon she’ll lose her nerve. She’ll just stop caring.

There’s nothing in this room that she can use as a weapon, nothing she can use to escape. Steven has eyes on her, she knows that, so anything she tries to do he’ll see. She only has one option, the most obvious, the most unsubtle.

And though it’s not a good plan, and the odds of it working in her favor are overwhelmingly against her, she finds the lack of choice a little liberating. If there’s nothing else to be done, then all she can do is try.

She thinks of her father again, a smile tugging open the day old cut on her lip. The blood is coppery when her tongue darts out to catch it, and it reminds her what’s at stake.

.-.-.-.-.-.

 They can’t call the cops. They’ve gone round and round on this until Bellamy thought his head was going to explode. But most of the investigation they’ve done on Kolberg has been illegal, and there’s no way it can be used to get a warrant. And without the warrant, well. The cops won’t help them.

Bellamy thinks that Octavia is right, they need backup, but there’s another problem there.

“Bell-”

“No.” His voice is hoarse from arguing for hours, but this is one point he’s digging his heels in over. “Octavia, no fucking way are you coming with me.”

He can hear her grinding her teeth from where he sits, but at this point he really couldn’t care less.  

“Can you not be a sexist, overprotective douche for one second?” She hisses, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m not being sexist,” he says tiredly, “-and if you really consider me not wanting you to break into a psychotic stalker-murderer’s house being overprotective then whatever. But I won’t be able to focus if you’re there, O. Kolberg’s already got Clarke and I just- _please_. Please stay here.” There was a time when his ego would be bruised to beg like that in front of anyone, but that time has long gone.

The brunette crosses her arms angrily across her chest, and Bellamy almost sighs in relief. He knows her well enough to know her tells, and this one means she’s letting him win.

“God, fine. But it’s not because I couldn’t kick his ass. I could.”

“I’m not arguing with you there,” he mutters, and the irritation on her face softens just a little.

“So it’s just us, then?” Eddie asks, and Bellamy frowns at him.

“What? No, man, you don’t have to come.” Bellamy glances between Raven and him. “I don’t expect that. I have no idea what we’d be walking into.”

They both scoff, exchanging a look, and for a fleeting moment Bellamy thinks that they’re more alike than either would be pleased to admit.

“Yeah, right. Clarke is my best friend, no way you’re going without me.” Raven sets her jaw, eyes burning.

“I’m coming too.” It’s a surprisingly succinct response for Eddie, and Bellamy files that away for later consideration.

He sits back in his seat, taking in the new, nervous energy that’s suddenly filling the room. Octavia is glaring at him and fidgeting, but Raven and Eddie are almost purposefully still.

“So,” he says abruptly, getting to his feet. “I guess we’re going to get Clarke.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Clarke doesn’t know how this happened.

One second she was knee-deep in her new reality, the grey and the cement and the bleakness of it all. And then she was here, jamming a plastic fork into Steven’s jugular artery, and the irony isn’t lost on her, but it’s-

It just happened so fast.

One second he was standing there, taunting her, wondering _what am I going to do with you_ , and the next he wasn’t. The next she could feel the warmth of his blood flowing over her fingers in these little pulses, these…heartbeats.

“Clarke,” he gasps, and it amazingly strikes her as something other than terrifying that he manages to look so betrayed. Like this is _her_ fault. “Bitch.” The word seems worse somehow, accompanied by a bubble of blood at the corner of her mouth. She must have punctured his trachea too. It’s kind of hard to be precise with a plastic fork, when her hands are shaking from sleep deprivation and all that rage that she didn’t even know she was carrying. Still, as her mother would say, she’s getting sloppy.

There’s still a part of her that wants to stay. Steven is writhing in her hands and _screaming_ at her and still, that part of her that was trained to do no harm, the part that _fixes_ things like this, it’s telling her to stay.

It’s a miracle that her legs don’t fold under her as she steps back, dropping him to the ground.

“I c-I can’t.”

She turns, feet clumsy, slipping on the wet, slick concrete. She’s used to blood as a surgeon but it’s usually in bags, contained through suction. It’s not supposed to be all over the floor like this.

The door is open, it’s right there. She can go home. She can go to _Bellamy_.

But as the hand snakes around her ankle, she realizes she’s wrong. She’s Clarke Griffin. Griffins don’t get their happy endings. So when her feet go out from under her, and the bloody ground comes toward her like the face of a train, it almost feels right.

And then it meets her, and she hears it more than she feels it, the crack, and then she doesn’t feel anything at all.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“This is probably the stupidest thing we could possibly do.” Bellamy pauses outside the door in front of them. It’s red, paint peeling where the wood bows a little in the corners. The massive grain silo towers beside them, casting the tiny farmhouse in shadow. It only took about an hour and half to make the drive, including a quick stop for some things Miller and Monty told them they might need, and now they’re here.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, just agreeing. Raven, beside him, shrugs.

“We know, Bellamy.”

“Raven,” he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.”-shut up for a second. It’s dangerous, okay? Real, stupid, reckless danger. I have to go in, and I’m not questioning how much you care about Clarke, I’m just saying, you don’t have to do this. You can take a second to _think_.” His voice drops a few octaves, because he’s serious, and he loves Clarke more than maybe anything is this world but Raven and Eddie are his friends too. He doesn’t want them getting hurt, or worse.

Raven and Eddie exchange a glance, onyx and ice, and Bellamy knows. They don’t have to say anything else.

“Okay.” He mutters, turning back to the door. “Just-I don’t know. Keep your eyes open.”

He thinks he hears Eddie mutter something like _aye aye cap’n_ but ignores it. He slides the first lifter from the lock picking kit Monty told them to buy into the lock and he’s no amateur to this, so it clicks open after a few seconds. He turns the handle and gives the door a gentle nudge, and it swings wide. Thankfully, it does so silently, and their footfalls are just as quiet on the yellowing shag carpet that covers the hallway in front of them.

Bellamy strains his ears listening for something, anything, and catches the muted ticking of a wall clock coming from one of the adjacent rooms, but nothing else. It’s completely quiet. Either Steven’s not here, or they’re in the wrong place.

Feeling edgy and out of place, he pushes forward, past a kitchen stuck in the 70’s, a living room so sun-bleached that it’s almost completely devoid of colour, and two small bedrooms. There’s no sign of anyone. When Raven speaks, right in his ear, he has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming.

“What are we thinking?” She wants to know.

He glares sharply at her.

“Keep looking. You take Eddie, I’m going to look downstairs.”

The gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans seems to flare hot against his skin as he descends into what seems to be a basement. He shouldn’t have it, is violating all kinds of laws, but-

It’s not like it really matters anyways.

The basement is almost nondescript. The floors are covered in a mossy green shag, board games stacked on a bookshelf in the corner, the stairs leading down to it just unfinished plywood, like someone ripped up the carpet there and never replaced it. There’s another door off to the left, slightly ajar, and he can see a sink through it.

All in all, it doesn’t seem like the basement of a murderer.

There are no windows, but then he sees the other door. It doesn’t really stand out from the rest, they’re all made from that fake oak veneer, but this is the only one without a cheap looking brass handle. The handle is silver and looks new, more modern.

He goes over to it, notices the lock. This isn’t the same standard lock as on the front door, this is serious hardware, and it’s new too.

The stairs creak, and his head jerks up, adrenaline flooding and then fading as he sees Raven coming down the steps, Eddie behind her. He motions for them to check the bathroom, which they do, and then they make their way over to him.

“That’s the only thing in this house that wasn’t made in 1974.” Raven says, eyeing the lock he was inspecting. “No lock kit from Home Depot is going to get you into that,” she adds as an afterthought, answering the question in his head.

“So how do we get in?” He asks. She cocks her head, studying the door.

After a few seconds, she sighs.

“Just kick it in. That’s the same shitty hollow door on the rest of these frames. It’s basically particleboard.”

He stares at her.

“That’s…I mean it’ll definitely announce our presence.” He points out. She shrugs.

“It’s the fastest way in. I have no idea what kind of psycho would bother putting that kind of a lock like that on a door like this, but-” she falls silent when his face twists at her words. “Right. Sorry.”

He looks to Eddie, then back at her.

“Okay.” This all feels surreal, but then he remembers that Clarke might be on the other side of that door, Clarke who’s been missing over a week, Clarke who _needs_ him, and he turns and slams his foot into the door with all the force he can muster.

It splinters like cheap kindling, Raven was right, the crack echoing through the enclosed space. It takes a few more shots to make a hole big enough to stick his arm through, but he reaches through it and up to unlock the door from the inside. The debris crunches underneath it as he pushes it open, and he stares down the long, dark set of concrete stairs in front of him.

“What the fuck?” He squints, barely able to make out a landing almost forty feet below them.

Behind him, Eddie makes a noise.

“That must attach to the silo.” He says, sounding incredulous. “Man, that’s _weird_.”

Raven scoffs.

“Why would they need to access the silo from inside the house?”

It dawns on all three of them at the same time.

Bellamy goes first, racing down the steps three at a time, no regard for who or what might be waiting at the bottom. Raven is close behind him, Eddie just on her heels.

As Bellamy closes in on the last stair, he sees the door, solid metal, and god, does that ever look out of place. He’s sure there will be some kind of impossible lock on that, too, but when he hits the landing he realizes the door is slightly ajar.

He doesn’t think about it, just pushes.

Someone hisses his name behind him, but he ignores it. The door pushes back a little, resisting, like there’s something pushed up against it, and he pushes again, harder. Whatever was on the other side gives enough that the door opens about forty degrees, and that’s when the smell hits him. Blood.

Panic rises like ice in his veins, up the back of his neck. The floor in front of him seems to be concrete as well, coated in a sea of red. He steps into the tiny room, barely has a second to register that it’s like a tiny concrete grey jail cell before he sees them and stops dead.

Kolberg’s there, laying in more blood than Bellamy has ever seen in his life, unmoving. But his eyes move almost immediately to Clarke, laying beside him, paler than he’s ever seen her.

She’s so _still_.

“Oh god,” he drops to his knees, kicking Kolberg out of the way while Raven and Eddie talk to him from outside the door.

“What, Bellamy, what’s-” they can’t fit inside, not with Bellamy and the other two here, and he can’t answer them.

“Clarke,” her name is a gasp on his lips because she’s _here_ , she’s right in front of him, but she’s so cold. His hand flies to her neck, and for a minute everything stops because there’s nothing under his fingertips, absolutely nothing, and then...just a whisper of a pulse. But it’s there. “God,” he croaks, then- “Raven! Call an ambulance! Now!”

He can’t tell where the blood is coming from, it doesn’t seem to be hers, but there are bruises on her face, on her neck, and he has to resist the urge to turn around and fire a few rounds into Kolberg just for the hell of it. Eddie trips into the room behind him, nearly falling onto him as he crawls over Kolberg’s body. The blonde stares around at the scene with wide, horrified eyes.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” and then he spots Clarke. “Is she-”

“She’s alive,” Bellamy murmurs. His eyes flit back to Kolberg, and he nods at the body. “Can you check-”

Eddie just nods, bending down, and then he lets out a noise of disgust.

“No, he’s dead.” His friend says, looking a little unsteady, face ashen. “And his neck is…” he makes a vague gesture, eyes falling back on Clarke, gathered in Bellamy’s arms. “Well, she got him good.”

Something flickers in his chest, pride maybe, something he can’t feel right now.

“Clarke,” he says again, a little more softly. “Can you hear me? Come on, Princess, talk to me.”

She doesn’t even stir.

Her eyes are closed, circled by dark shadows, hair wilder than he’s ever seen it. She looks feral almost, even still like this, and he suddenly _misses_ her so intensely it’s like a punch to the gut.

 Eddie’s just kind of standing between them and Kolberg, like a shield, and Bellamy gets it. He appreciates that.

“Where’s Raven?” He asks, not taking his eyes off Clarke.

“She had to go back up to the basement to get reception. I think she was going to go out front to meet the cops.”

He grunts in response, leaning down to press his lips against her forehead.

“Can you just-” he pleads, staring at her like maybe if he thinks it harder enough she’ll open her eyes. “Something, please, open your eyes, or-”

Her hand moves, barely, but enough that her nails scratch lightly against the thigh of his jeans where her arm was resting. Bellamy sucks in a breath.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, I’m right here.”

.-.-.-.-.

There are cops everywhere, and Bellamy knows that’s bad. Eddie gets on the phone to his defense attorney, because of course he has one of those, and all these uniforms everywhere are trying to keep Bellamy in place.

“I have to _go_ ,” he practically shouts, pushing past the tenth officer to grab at him. “Look, you can meet me at the hospital, I don’t give a shit, I’ll talk, but I’m going with her.”

They’re loading Clarke into the back of an ambulance, and it’s all so real like this, out in the daylight, with the red and blue lights bouncing off the white of her face. The terror hits him then, as he squeezes his way into the back of the rig with her, watching the paramedics poke needles and tubes all over her body. She doesn’t look like herself at all.

.-.-.-.-.

He’s almost glad for all the questions when the cops show up in the waiting room of the hospital. It gives him something to do other than sit on his ass waiting for news, almost keeps his mind off of it.

“But how did you know it was Kolberg to begin with?” The officer asking is one Bellamy recognizes from when he filed the missing person’s report.

“Don’t answer that.” Eddie’s lawyer says immediately, looking up from his phone where he stands between them. It barely took him twenty minutes to show up at the hospital, which means he obviously didn’t fly in from Toronto, and Bellamy isn’t totally sure what to make of the fact that his friend just apparently has attorneys readily on hand in multiple countries, on multiple coasts.

The officers sigh, exchanging an irritated look.

“You do realize we could just take your client down to the station right now, arrest him for breaking and entering, suspicion of murder, abduction-”

Bellamy makes a noise of outrage at the last charge, but the lawyer, a middle aged man named Fry Templeton, sighs.

“And we appreciate that. We do. Look, can you just give me a minute with my client please?”

Grudgingly, they back off.

Templeton turns to Bellamy.

“You guys really got yourselves into a mess, here.” He says, sounding more stern than anything else. Bellamy shrugs. “I mean, spare me the details, but you obviously violated some privacy laws digging around in Kolberg’s life, not to mention how you made that ID in the first place, you broke into his house, and then you’re found with two bodies in the basement of his-”

“ _Clarke_ ,” Bellamy hisses, gaze snapping back to the lawyer from where it had wandered over to the nurse’s station. “-is alive.”

Templeton looks a little taken aback.

“Right. Sorry. I’m just saying. This all looks pretty bad.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Bellamy asks, exhausted. “To make it not look so bad?”

The other man frowns.

“Mr. Blake-”

But one of the doctors who received Clarke chooses that moment to appear, and Bellamy rounds on her before Templeton can finish his sentence.

“Is she-how is she?” He asks, and the woman looks a little startled, what with the major entourage of law enforcement officers filling the room.

“Are you next of kin?” She wonders, and he hesitates.

“Her mother’s technically her next of kin, but she’s not here yet, and-”

“Right.” The doctor frowns. “And you are?”

“I’m Bellamy Blake, I found her, she’s my-” he pauses, doesn’t really know what to call her anymore, but thankfully, he doesn’t have to figure it out. Raven appears from somewhere behind him.

“He’s her emergency medical contact. You can check her file.”

Bellamy blinks, turning to the Latina when the doctor grabs a tablet from the nurse’s station and begins tapping at it.

“Still?” He asks, shocked.

Raven just gives him a sad smile.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Still.”

The doctor returns, waving him forward.

“You’ve got quite the escort,” she murmurs, eyeing the half dozen officers still lingering in the room waiting to get their statements.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t even look back at them. “So how’s Clarke? Is she going to be okay?”

She sighs.

“Ms. Griffin suffered some pretty serious brain trauma. It looks like multiple concussions in the past week, and when the brain get beat up like that…it swells to protect itself. It’s called a cerebral edema. But, obviously, your skull can’t grow to accommodate that extra pressure, and that can sometimes be a problem.”

He stares, searching her face, but it’s neutral.

“Okay, and is this one of those times?”

“After an initial assessment, we’ve decided not to operate. The swelling right now could go down on it’s own, and we won’t be able to tell until she wakes up if there was any permanent damage.”

“When she wakes up?” He tries not to hear the implied _if_ there.

“With injuries like this it’s impossible to know for sure, but there’s a good chance. You just have to be patient.”

Patient. Right.

He can totally be patient.

.-.-.-.-.-.

In the end, it’s Abbie’s boyfriend, Marcus Kane, who saves all their asses.

Turns out he was the Deputy Attorney General for four years, which is just another thing Bellamy files away for later reflection because seriously, it turns out he doesn’t actually know the people in his life all that well.

He calls in favours, a lot of them, but Bellamy’s a free man by the time Clarke wakes up. And he’ll owe Marcus for that forever.

It’s been two days since Bellamy found her, since she was admitted, and the nurses and doctors all say the same thing; that he just needs to be patient, she’ll wake up when she’s ready. The rest of her injuries, including two broken ribs, a bruised spleen and a bit of internal bleeding, apparently aren’t life threatening.

So he’s been sitting, for two days, beside her bed. Abbie’s there too, and so is Marcus, for the most part. Others cycle in and out, Eddie and Raven crash at a hotel, a _different_ hotel, Octavia and Lincoln stop by as well.

People call, people he knows, and then, somehow, the press gets a hold of it.

Clarke’s story wasn’t big news until the first girl showed up dead, because Clarke’s not exactly a public figure. Bellamy never would have considered himself one, either, but apparently he is because one day his cellphone starts blowing up with calls from reporters and journalists and talk shows and it doesn’t stop until he turns it off and never turns it back on.

He only talks to her.

He holds her hand, and tells her stories, the ones he used to tell Octavia, about the Romans and the constellations. He traces the scar on her arm, thinks about how close he came to losing her, and how cruel it would be for her to leave him now, like this, when they’re so close.

But Clarke has always been a whirl of colour and movement, and she’s neither of those things now. He reaches out to brush a stray hair from her face, when suddenly, she gasps.

The noises that follow it are one’s he’ll never be able to forget, like she’s choking, drowning.

At the foot of the bed, Abbie jumps up.

“It’s her ventilator. She’s choking on it,” she says shakily, pressing a button to page the nurse. “I’m going to take it out.”

It’s not protocol, he’s sure, but Abigail Griffin is the Chief of Surgery at one of the biggest hospitals in her country, so, no one says anything as she slowly guides the tube out of her daughter’s throat.

“Shh, Clarke, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Her eyes fly open, and the blue hits Bellamy like a bucket of ice water.

God, he’d almost forgotten how beautiful her eyes are.

“Clarke,” he reaches out, takes her hand as her breathing calms a little. “Hey, you’re alright.”

She just stares back at him, blank, and then her eyes fall on her mother.

“Mom?” The word is almost lost in the rasp of her voice, but Abbie smiles.

“Hey, honey. It’s okay, now. I’m here.”

“How,” Clarke winces. “What-” She tries to sit up, but Abbie pushes gently against her chest.

“No, Clarke, don’t try to get up.” Then she turns to the nurse. “Can we get her some water?”

He feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s Marcus.

“Come on, son. Let’s just give them a moment.”

That’s the last thing he wants, but he follows Kane out into the hallway anyways, sinks onto the ground outside.

“She’s awake,” he says, surprised by the tremor in his voice. Kane nods.

“She is.”

“She can talk, and she knows-she seemed okay, right?”

The older man shrugs.

“I would have been asking you that.”

She seemed okay, he thinks. Considering.

After about fifteen minutes, Marcus picks up on his impatience, and gestures toward the door with a sigh. Bellamy all but leaps to his feet. It’s not like he really needed permission to go back in and see her, but. He was trying to be considerate.

Both women look up when he enters, Abbie smiling in a way that pools relief deep in his bones. She wouldn’t be smiling like that if Clarke wasn’t alright. But Clarke just looks him over curiously, face unreadable.

“Hey.” He says roughly, eyes roaming every inch of her face, all the animations that weren’t there when she was unconscious, so familiar.

“Hi,” she sounds, groggy, uncertain. “I-” she turns back to Abbie. “Is he one of my doctors?”

It takes a minute for her words to sink in, and a loaded silence follows them.

She doesn’t recognize him. Clarke has no idea who he is.

.-.-.-.-.-.

The world is overwhelmingly bright.

It reminds her of this painting she saw once, at the gallery. This mess of whites and blues and yellows so loud you could almost hear it. She’d always had to squint looking at that painting.

But her eyes adjust eventually, and the first thing she sees is a man. He’s-

He has curly black hair and big, dark eyes, and this smattering of freckles across his face that for some reason fills her with delight. He’s gorgeous, and looks a little frightening in his intensity, and she thinks that if she’s died and gone to heaven then the angels look a lot different than she’d expect. Scarier.

His hand comes out, takes hers, and then he speaks.

“Clarke, hey, you’re alright.”

His voice is low, rumbly in a way that makes her tingle in all the places she isn’t _sore_. She wonders who he is. There’s something in his gaze, like he’s waiting for something, and it makes her head hurt a little, so she looks away. Then her eyes fall on her mother.

“Mom?” Her throat feels excruciating, and she realizes that the nightmare she was having about drowning a few minutes ago might not have been a dream. She was probably intubated.

Her mother’s here, and she’s in a hospital, and she was intubated, so-

Something must have happened.

Abbie smiles at her.

 “Hey, honey. It’s okay now. I’m here.” Her mother’s voice is soft, maternal, and the rare display of affection has a wave of emotion rolling through her.

“How-” she tries to ask, wincing as the sides of her throat rub together painfully. “What-” What the hell is going on? What happened? She tries to sit up, to look around, but her mother holds her back.

“No, Clarke, don’t try to get up.” Abbie turns to one of the nurses and murmurs something, and for the first time Clarke notices Marcus Kane standing at the back of the room. He looks happy to see her, and he isn’t always, so that’s something she files away for later consideration. The freckled Greek god at the side of her bed is still there, hovering anxiously.

And then he’s not, Marcus puts a hand on his shoulder and leads him out, and it’s just Clarke and her mother. They bring her some water, and the burning in her throat flares, and then eases.

When she can speak, she fixes her mother with her most serious expression.

 “What happened?”

Abbie frowns.

“What do you remember?”

Clarke considers that, rolling the hazy memories she has around in her head until they fall into something of a narrative. There’s a fog around everything, and she’s not sure if it’s due to the painkillers or something worse, but it makes remembering slow and painful.

“I was…in a room…a hotel maybe? And then…I-” she frowns as all her memories go blurry. “It was just…grey. There was a man that I knew from somewhere, he had a knife, I think I-” her heart kicks painfully, adrenaline flooding her body uncomfortably. “I killed him.”

The words sound wrong, clumsy off her out of practice tongue but they’re not. She knows as soon as she says them that they’re true. She closes her eyes, wanting to fight the images, but also wanting to know the truth. They come a little faster now, and they’re violent and awful, but she reminds herself that she’s here. She’s here now, and it’s over. Kolberg’s dead.

“He’s…his name was Steven Kolberg, his girlfriend, Maya, she died. She was one of my patients.” She recalls. And the guilt of that had eaten at her for months. First patient to die on her table. Abbie’s still watching her, almost nervously. “I guess he took me from the hotel, he kept me in this…place. It was like a jail cell. There were no windows, and I could never tell-” she breaks off, voice wobbling. “-I never knew what time it was.”

She rolls over, facing her mother directly.

“How long was I there?”

Abbie’s eyes sweep over her, evaluating.

“Nine days.”

Her mouth drops open in surprise. It felt like longer. It felt like months.

“I stabbed him,” she whispers, “with a fork.”

Her mother’s mouth sets in a thin line, hand tightening where it grips the armrest of her chair.

“I know. He’s dead.”

“And I thought that was it, I was going to get away, but he grabbed me, and I slipped.” She frowns. “I don’t remember anything after that.”

Abbie reaches out, pressing a hand to Clarke’s face.

“Your friends found you. Bellamy and Raven, and Eddie. They found where Kolberg was keeping you and when they got there he was already dead. You were…” she takes a little breath, steadying herself. “You’d been knocked out. They called the paramedics, brought you here, and-” she stops. “This is a lot to go over. Do you want to take a break?”

Clarke shakes her head, wincing as it sends a shock of pain through her temple.

“Just tell me.”

“You had a cerebral edema from what they think was multiple concussions. You were in a coma for two days.”

Clarke stares at her.

“That’s why I was intubated.”

Her mother nods. Then something else about the story she just heard strikes her. A name.

“But who’s-”

They’re interrupted when Marcus comes back in, accompanied by the freckled man from earlier. He smiles at her, and she notices the deep dimples flanking his chin. Inexplicably, she has to resist the urge to reach out and stick her finger in one of them.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough. His eyes trail over her face, like he’s studying her.

“Hi,” she replies, feeling something shift. He waits, expectant, and she turns uncomfortably to Abbie, fighting the feeling that everyone in the room is acting like she should know him. “I-is he one of my doctors?”

.-.-.-.-.

Abbie blinks at her, and it’s immediately obvious that that was the wrong thing to say.

“Clarke, honey, that’s Bellamy.”

Clarke looks back at him, confused.

“Bellamy.” She turns the name over on her tongue. It feels familiar, like muscle memory almost, like she’s said it a million times before. But she doesn’t know him. She doesn’t remember.

He’s watching her now, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re one of the ones who found me,” she says slowly, because that much she knows. He nods, slowly.

“You don’t remember me.” It’s not a question, but there’s something jagged in his voice that takes her breath away. When she sees the pain in his eyes, it feels like her heart is breaking.

“I don’t,” she whispers. She wants to. She thinks maybe he’s important, because her fingers keep instinctively reaching out toward him, and she kind of wants to bury her face in his chest, but for the most part she’s looking at him and seeing a stranger.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that.

“Mom,” she says suddenly, “-can you leave us alone for a minute?”

Soon there will be tests, and lights shining in her eyes, and this whole missing memory thing is probably going to mean she needs an MRI, but right now the only thing she can see is the boy with the freckles and the absolutely unconvincing mask of stoicism.

Abbie gets to her feet.

“Sure, sweetheart. We’ll be right outside if you need us.” She presses a kiss to Clarke’s forehead, and then they’re gone.

“Can you…” Clarke watches Bellamy pace, and gestures to the chair beside her bed. “Do you want to sit down?”

He looks up, surprised.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “alright.” He sinks into the chair heavily, eyes on her. No one’s ever looked at her the way he does. She finds it fascinating, and a little terrifying.

“I’m sorry that I don’t remember,” she says eventually. Sleep is tugging at her eyes again, but she doesn’t want it. There are too many pieces still missing.

“It’s okay,” he replies automatically.

She scoffs, and his eyebrows go up.

“No, it’s not. We’re obviously close.”

“How do you know that?”

She fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“You went looking for me after I got abducted. You found me. You came to the hospital, and look like you probably haven’t left since I first got admitted. And you keep looking at me like that.”

He freezes.

“Like what?”

“Like…” she waves her hands weakly, grimacing again when she feels pain radiating out from her torso. She must have a few cracked ribs, at least. “Like you’re not totally sure I’m real, I guess.”

He sighs, then changes the subject.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I was held captive for a week by a guy with a bad temper,” she mutters, and his eyes instantly change, simmering with an angry heat. That surprises her, though if he is her boyfriend, or whatever, it probably shouldn’t.

“They think you got the concussion when you slipped and fell, but-” he gestures at the rest of her. “Did Kolberg do that to you? Do you remember?”

“I remember,” she says simply, but he catches the insinuation, hands fisting in his lap. “So,” she clears her throat. “Who are you?”

He blinks.

“I mean, to me. Are you my boyfriend, or…”

He scratches at the back of his neck, and she senses a complicated answer coming.

“I…we used to date, yeah. You really don’t remember me at all?” There’s something in his voice, like he can’t believe it, and it makes her think that there must have been something amazing, or at least tragic, between them. Something too big to forget.

“No.” She bites her lip, suppressing a yawn. “If it makes you feel better, this is probably temporary.” When he looks confused, she taps her forehead. “Memory loss after head trauma. A lot of the time it only lasts a day or two, especially with something as specific as this.”

That does seem to calm him, a little of the nervous energy that had been humming around him fades away.

“Okay, well, I’m Octavia’s brother. Do you remember O?”

She nods, trying to ignore the way that just seems to hurt him more.

“Well, I came to town one weekend and, uh, she basically manipulated you into letting me crash at your loft for a while.”

A roommate? She pushes at her mind, wondering where that information has gone, but finds nothing.

“We didn’t actually get along that well at first. You were kind of uptight and-” he smiles to himself. “I don’t know. I was intimidated by you, by all your money, your fancy career, your house. I was an asshole.”

She smiles too, and then it fades.

“I was totally in love with you within, like, a couple weeks.”

“Naturally,” she smirks, and he smiles back, a real one that almost blinds her. Those dimples, she thinks, those must have been the death of her when they were together.

“You flew out here, to California, to come to the Emmy’s with me. My show was nominated.”

She stares at him in surprise.

“You’re an actor?”

He snorts.

“Not even a little bit. I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” She frowns, because that sounds right, too.

“I’m sorry. I wish-” his voice shakes, and he looks away. “I wish I had never asked you to come. This is all my fault. I should never have let you go back to the hotel by yourself.”

She shakes her head.

“It’s not your fault. Steven was stalking me, he would have found a way.”

He straightens, turning the full force of his gaze on her.

“Clarke-”

A woman in scrubs bursts through the door, smiling widely.

“Ahh, Ms. Griffin. It’s good to see you awake!” She says, grabbing Clarke’s chart from beside her bed. Bellamy leans back in his chair, silent.

“Doctor…,” Clarke greets the woman.

“Dr. Brady. I’m going to have to run some tests, your boyfriend should probably wait outside.”

She doesn’t correct the use of the word boyfriend, which Bellamy seems to notice.

“We can talk later,” she says, because she doesn’t want him to feel like she’s dismissing him.

“Okay,” he says, then hesitates. “I-I’ll be around. If you need me.”

The fact that he’s not going home, or at least back to a hotel, doesn’t surprise her. What does surprise her is how relieved she is that he’s staying.

.-.-.-.-.-.

Post-Traumatic Amnesia. That’s what they’re calling it.

Bellamy can’t help but think of it as the fact that Clarke can remember everyone and everything in her life except for him. And for some reason, he doesn’t seem to be leaving that big of a hole behind.

.-.-.-.-.

The beeping of the monitor is keeping her awake. Clarke sighs, climbing out of bed to swipe at the volume setting on the side of the machine. She’s familiar enough with the equipment to find it and turn it down without setting off any alarms. When she turns back to her bed, she realizes the chair beside it is empty. The one her mother was in just seconds ago.

Frowning, she glances around the room. Marcus is gone, too. It’s just her, bathed in the dim fluorescent glow of the hospital lighting after dark. She walks gingerly over to the door, mindful of her sore, well, everything, and peers outside. There’s no one there.

She’s never seen a hospital hallway this quiet. Something in her stomach twists uncomfortably.

It’s so dark, she can barely see it, but something is spilling across the floor in front of her, flowing from around the corner. It looks black almost, in the light, but then she smells it.

Blood.

Her steps are quicker now, breathing sharper even though each one feels like a knife to the side, and she rounds the corner at a jog. When she sees the source of the blood, her breath catches in her throat.

It’s Bellamy, laying there in that ever growing sea of blood, and his face is cast white in the dim lighting, so different from the golden tan she remembers from earlier.

“Wh-” the words strangles in her mouth as she drops to her knees beside him, hands flying to the wound at his neck. The overhead light catches it, and she can make out four distinct puncture wounds.

Four prongs. The kind you’d find on a plastic fork.

“Hang in there, Bellamy,” she says, choking back a sob. “I’m-HELP!” She screams. This is a hospital, for god’s sake, where is everyone? “I’m going to find someone, I’m going to-”

“ _Clarke_.”

She jerks awake, gasping, blinking away tears. Slowly, the person in front of her comes into focus. Freckles.

And just like that she remembers.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, and he takes one look at her and the next thing she knows he’s kissing her like he hasn’t seen her in _years_.

Which-well it feels like that for her, too.

His hand tangles in her hair, the other cupping her cheek, and she reaches for him, fisting her hands in his shirt as she clings to him. It’s needy, teeth scraping and mouths gasping, but it doesn’t last long. He pulls back.

“Your mom,” he whispers, lips against her ear. “Is sleeping in the corner.”

She fights a laugh, which just ends up turning into a sob.

Without any hesitation, Bellamy climbs onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms.

“Shh.”

She drops her head against his chest, trying to control the sobs as they shake her, but eventually she gives up and just lets them come.

Bellamy doesn’t say anything, just strokes her hair and hums a little, a song she doesn’t quite recognize until-

“Are you humming the _Earthbound_ theme song?” She asks incredulously. He stops.

“Uh,”

She laughs, for real this time, muffling it in his sodden t-shirt. He doesn’t _smell_ like he hasn’t showered in three days, and he’s been a writer the whole time she’s known him, so yes she does know what that smells like. He just smells like leather and old books and himself, and Clarke wants to burrow into that scent and live there.

“Bell, I-”

“Clarke.” He shakes his head. “Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“Don’t-”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Clarke is _hot._

Hospital blankets aren’t exactly renowned for being warm, and the central air is usually kept nice and crisp in order to stave off the growth of any of the millions of strains of bacteria that can be found there at any time, so at first she doesn’t really understand _why_ the back of her neck is damp with sweat.

And then someone moves against her back, sighing, and that familiar half snore vibrates through the bed, and she has to suppress a smile. Yawning, she looks around and realizes her mother and Marcus are gone. Her best guess is that they woke up and found Clarke and Bellamy wrapped around each other like ivy on brick and decided to give the pair a little privacy.

She wiggles a little, needing the stretch the stiffness where her bruises are, and Bellamy startles awake.

He blinks at her, wide eyed, and she wonders if he was having a bad dream.

“Good morning,” she says softly. He exhales, long and slow.

“Morning.” After squinting at her for a moment, he asks, a little uncertainly; “Do you still remember me?”

“I…” her mouth twists, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry…”

Immediately, he moves to slide off the bed, but she reaches out, grabbing him.

He looks up in time to catch the grin on her face, and growls.

“Oh,” he tightens his grip around her, not painful, just a warning. “That is so not funny.”

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You’re such a brat.” She turns her head to face him, and he leans forward so their foreheads are touching and they just stay like that for a minute, because neither of them really want to have any of the conversations that they need to.

 “You found me,” she says quietly, and it’s different than when she said it yesterday, because today she understands. It had all been explained to her the day before, Kolberg, and Monty and Miller and Bellamy and Raven and-all of it.

And she’d filled in some gaps for the police, too, and for her mother, but there were things she hadn’t talked about yet.

“I will always find you,” his heart thumps against her arm where it’s pressing against his chest. “When they pulled that first girl from the river I thought-I didn’t believe it. And then, just for a second, I did. And it was like-like the lights went out. Like everything had gone dark.”

She can feel the timbre of his voice vibrating through every point of contact, and closes her eyes.

“I’m here. I’m okay.”

“Don’t ever do that to me again.”

She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“What, get abducted? Okay, sure.”

They lay back, her dozing against him, still putting off the thing they most need to talk about.

“Hey,” she says suddenly, and his fingers still against her neck. “Did you win?”

“Win…”

“The Emmy?”

“God,” he laughs hollowly. “That feels like years ago.” When he doesn’t answer her question, she elbows him. “No, we lost to Mad Men.”

She harumphs, and he laughs again, this time with a little more feeling.

“How’d you know?” She wonders aloud, and again, he pauses, waiting for context. “Last night, when I woke up, you just...how did you know I remembered?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time.

“It was,” he clears his throat. “It was just the way you said my name.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

They up Clarke’s meds for the next few days. Bellamy doesn’t ask if it’s because of the nightmares, but she knows he knows she’s having them.

It makes it harder for them to talk, she doesn’t remember half their conversations, and she’s so out of it half the time that he just reads to her, a strangely nostalgic story about a princess and a pauper, absentmindedly twirling strands of her hair around his finger.

She still sees Steven sometimes, still wakes up to the feeling of his boot in her stomach, and she gets discharged with a prescription for Ativan and the number of a good shrink back in Vancouver.

She’s not as out of it now, but they still haven’t really talked about it. She looks up from her hospital bed the day she’s supposed to check out and catches him staring at her.

“What?” She asks. He shrugs.

“Nothing.”

He’s obviously lying, but Clarke can’t read his mind, so she’s not sure if it’s something she needs to be concerned about.

“Why is this hard?” She wonders. He blinks at her, pausing halfway into turning the page of his book.

“Why is-”

“Are you coming?” She asks bluntly, suddenly tired of this dancing around the subject, around pretending everything can just go back to normal. They don’t have a normal to go back to. Their normal is living almost 3000 miles apart, not really talking, not really seeing each other. Clarke doesn’t _think_ that’s what he wants, even before all this happened she was kind of getting the sense that he’d been just as miserable as her, but-

“Are you going somewhere?” He asks stupidly. She throws a pillow at him, in a truly pathetic display of non-athleticism, and it falls a few inches short of his chair.

“Are you serious?” she practically shouts, and it’s been almost a week of hushed voices and sleepy mumblings so the volume of it seems to startle him back to focus. “Yeah, Bellamy, I’m going _home_. Back to Vancouver, where _I_ live.”

His mouth drops open in understanding, little spots of angry colour appearing on his cheeks.

“Clarke-”

“You’ve been here for a week, you haven’t left my side, you looked for me when no one else would, you broke about a dozen laws saving my life, and you can’t even talk to me about what we do _now_?” She accuses, pointing a shaky finger at him. “Why is that _hard_ , Bellamy? After everything, why-”

He’s there in an instant, before she can blink, kneeling beside her, eyes fiery.

“Why is it hard? Because I can’t just say _oh, by the way, I’m moving back to the West Coast to be with you_.” He says slowly, dangerously. “I mean I am, I’m moving back whether you’ll have me or not, because I fucking hate Toronto and I’m done with the TV thing and I miss writing books, which is what I always wanted to do in the first place.”

She blinks.

“But I don’t just want to move back to be with you, Clarke, I want to move back into the loft, or we could buy a new place, I don’t care, and I want to wake up next to you everyday, and I don’t want-” he breaks off, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want you to go anywhere, ever again, and I don’t ever want to live without you. I want to get married, and I want to take _care_ of you, even though I’ve done a fucking terrible job of it so far. I want to have family barbecues, with O and Lincoln, and I want to watch you paint, and I want to cook for you, and remind you to eat when you forget, and raise a bunch of tiny, angry, artsy historians, and I just-”

He stares at her, chest heaving.

“I love you. More than I have ever loved anyone. And when I thought I lost you, I couldn’t…”

“Bellamy…” she reaches out, splaying her fingers across her jaw, feeling his pulse thrumming wildly there. He closes her eyes, leaning into it.

“That’s why it’s hard,” he mumbles. “Because it’s not just that I want to come with you. I want everything.”

Her lips curl, slowly at first, and then into a face splitting smile, and when he finally opens his eyes he looks surprised to see it.

“You don’t look terrified,” he observes.

She sighs.

“I’ve _been_ terrified,” she reminds him softly, and his eyes darken, deepen, at that. “The thought of being with you, forever, it’s not enough to scare me anymore, Blake.”

He dimples, and this time she indulges herself, pressing her index finger softly into the deeper one on the right.

“Is that a yes?” He wants to know. She raises an eyebrow.

“Did you ask me a question?” She expects him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, the easy smile disappears, replaced by something pensive.

“I-” He falls silent, brow low.

“It’s kind of difficult to make someone doubt your intentions after a speech like that,” Clarke says nervously, watching Bellamy retreat back into his head. “But right now you’re doing a pretty good job.”

That gets his attention again, and he shakes his head frantically, dark curls bouncing.

“No, shit, it’s-its not that it’s just-” he swallows, running a thumb across her cheekbone. “There are a lot of questions I want to ask you, a lot of promises I want to make to you. I just don’t want to do them here. Not like this.” He gestures sadly around the room, eyes lingering on her, and she remembers the mottling of her face, the veritable rainbow of blues and purples and yellows blossoming across her body right now, and she gets it.

“Okay,” she fists her hand in his collar, tugging him forward to press her lips against his. “But for now, will you come home with me?”

“That depends,” he breathes against her mouth. “Are you going to cut me a deal on rent again? Because I hear living in Vancouver has gotten kind of expens-”

She cuts him off with another kiss, biting lightly at his lip as an acknowledgment of his sarcasm.

“I think,” she says breathily, when they eventually come up for air, “-that we can probably work something out.”


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is! I can't believe this story is actually done. I've never written anything this long before, and to everyone who stuck with me during the infrequent and erratic updates, thank you!
> 
> I've loved (and hated) writing this, and your comments have been amazing. 
> 
> Until we meet again <3

“No, you can just-Bellamy stop wiggling that it’s going to fall-” Clarke frowns at him from her perch on the bar stool in her kitchen, watching as he moves furniture around her living room. Moving him in has been a surprisingly long and tedious process, because he’s so fucking _nostalgic_ , so everything had to come, but they can’t get a bigger place because _they have history in this loft, Clarke_.

Anyways. He’s moved on from positioning his ancient leather recliner at the right angle to the fireplace, not the TV, because Bellamy doesn’t really watch TV anymore. Apparently spending a year behind the scenes kind of killed the magic for him. Now he’s trying to wedge the newly repaired glass-front cabinet in between two of the six (six!) bookshelves he brought with him. But he keeps rocking it back and forth to get it to fit, and from where Clarke is sitting she can see that it’s beginning to tip precariously, so she calls out to him again, a little more sharply this time.

“Bell! Just leave it for now. Lincoln’s coming over later, he can help you move that.”

She’d do it herself, except for the broken ribs, and bruised spleen and the fact that bending over makes her feel like someone is crushing her head in a metal vice. He sighs, releasing the cabinet with a resentful glare.

“When did I accumulate so much crap?” He wonders, ambling back over to the kitchen. “I used to be poor. I used to have no stuff.” He almost sounds wistful, and she rolls her eyes, poking him in the shoulder as he leans against the counter next to her.

“We could just get a bigger place, you know. The market’s good right now, I’d get way more than I paid for for this place.”

He looks at her, brow furrowed.

“We don’t really need it, do we? I mean this is place is fine. I’ll just have to get rid of some books or something.” He pauses. “Unless that’s what you want?”

Her face softens.

“No, not really. I like this loft. It was the first place I ever bought with my own money. And even though money’s not really an issue anymore, I don’t know,” she looks around, shrugging. “It feels like home.”

He slings an arm around her, carefully, and hums his agreement against her neck. Everything has been careful the past few days since they got back, gentle. Like he’s afraid he’ll break her.

But despite the nightmares, and the way she tenses when people come up behind her now, there’s no place she feels safer than in his arms.

.-.-.-.-.-.

They weather the media circus the best they can. Clarke finds out who the girl Kolberg dumped in the river is, reaches out to her family. They don’t want to talk, much, but agree to let Clarke cover the funeral costs.

There are calls for a while, from journalists and reporters, and Bellamy starts threatening them when he gets tired of it. Eventually, they both change their phone numbers, and the reporters either aren’t stupid or brave enough to come to the loft. Not after everything that’s happened.

Painting sales go up because of it, and Clarke hates that, asks Anya to vet everyone who wants to buy one in an attempt to avoid selling pieces to people who just want to be close to the tragedy, but that’s hard to do, and she has to learn to let it go.

It turns out that the coroner who asked Abbie to ID the body leaked the crime scene photos which later show up in the newspaper and on Entertainment Tonight. He gets fired, for that, and for the fact that it goes against every professional standard law enforcement officers have to force a family member to ID a body that’s been mutilated like that. It’s one of the things Kane used as leverage to get Bellamy and the others off the hook for breaking and entering. The whole investigation was botched, what were the kids supposed to do? Or something like that.

But months go by, and it passes, as all news stories do. They manage to find their normal, or some version of it.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Are those from Elle’s?” Clarke asks, peering over Bellamy’s shoulder to inspect the white pastry box in his hands. He looks impassively down at her.

“Maybe.”

When she reaches out to lift the lid, he slaps her hand away. Unwinding her arms from his chest, Clarke glares at him. He just stares back at her, unrelenting.

“These are for O’s barbecue. We can’t go without dessert again, she’ll disinvite us.”

“You’re her only brother, she’s not going to disinvite you. Besides, she likes me too much to ban me, and I’m the one who’s going to eat all those petit fours.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes, grabbing the keys off the kitchen island.

“No dice, Princess. Now let’s get a move on, we’re going to be late.”

The car ride is mostly quiet until Bellamy gets distracted by a swerving driver in front of them and Clarke seizes the opportunity. She pivots in her chair, snatching the box of pastries from the back seat. He glances at her as she flips the box open, and sighs.

“You seriously have no impulse control. You’re like a five year-old.”

But she’s staring into the box, quiet. His eyes, back on the road, flit to her face again.

“What’s wrong?”

She just frowns.

“Like half of these are almond.”

When she does look back up at him, his eyebrows have lifted.

“Uh, yeah. And?”

“I’m the only one who likes the almond ones.” She closes the box, chewing on her lip. Beside her, Bellamy shrugs.

“Yeah, I figured it would keep you away from the pistachio ones. Octavia said if you didn’t leave her some this time she was going to stop serving alcohol at family dinners.”

“That’s an empty threat,” Clarke says automatically, because Octavia probably drinks more than the rest of them combined. But she can’t stop thinking about these petit fours. It’s something so small, that he knows her favourites, that he’s willing to indulge her even when he should probably cut her off. She turns to her boyfriend, taking in his artfully freckled profile, and she’s suddenly hit with a swell of love so intense it makes her chest ache. “Bellamy, let’s get married.”

The car lurches a little as he misses third gear, and his head snaps around to stare at her.

“What, like right now?”

“No,” she says slowly, obviously. “Right now we have your sister’s barbecue. I just-I know you said you wanted to wait for a better time, and that’s really noble and all, but I don’t want to wait.” Her heart pounds, mouth dry. It’s not like she’s really expecting him to say _no_ , but-

“We could skip the barbecue,” he says hoarsely, eyes wide as he stares ahead. “Octavia would-”

“Kill us,” Clarke says with a grin. “No way we’re bailing on her dinner to get married without telling her. So is that a yes?”

“What?” He looks at her, confused.

“Do you-” she falters for a moment. “Do you want to get married?”

They finally pull up in front of Lincoln and Octavia’s place, and he shifts the Charger into park before turning to stare at her.

“Are you proposing?” He asks, cocking his head. “Because I was actually looking forward to doing that. Although I did kind of get the sense we were already engaged.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to raise an eyebrow. She holds her hand up in front of her face, wiggling her fingers.

“That’s funny, I never noticed a ring here.”

His lips twitch.

“Since when do you care about the jewelry?”

She huffs, mock irritably.

“Fine, Bellamy, _I_ see how it is, I’ll just-” She makes to open the door, but Bellamy’s hand closes around her wrist before she can get her seatbelt off.

“Clarke.” His gaze, when she turns back to meet it, is a mixture of intensity and softness that she really thinks he ought to patent, and she can’t help but sigh. “There’s nothing I want more than to marry you. And since you have so _rudely_ denied me the opportunity to propose, I think you can probably get the ring out of the glovebox yourself.”

She stares at him for a moment, then presses the box of dessert into his lap so she can tug the glove box open. She pulls out the tiny blue box, and flips it open, blinking at the simple cushion cut solitaire that glints back at her. She pries it from the velvet and slides the platinum band onto her finger, relishing it’s cool weight there. Bellamy’s right, she couldn’t care less about the jewelry. But this is so much more, something _normal_ , a declaration that after everything they’ve been through she actually gets to _keep_ him.

He clears his throat, and Clarke realizes she’s been staring at the ring for a while.

“Should I leave you two alone, or-”

Laughing, she leans across the car to kiss him.

“It’s beautiful.”

He smiles softly back at her, dark eyes bright, then his expression falters.

“I…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Since we’re talking about it, I should probably tell you that I don’t want to wait either, and when I say that, I mean-”

“Tomorrow.” Clarke says, a little breathlessly. She feels it too, that kind of restless anticipation tingling along her nerves like adrenaline. He blinks at her. “If that’s not what you meant, that’s fine I just-it feels like we’ve waited a long time already, and Octavia has the weekend off, so she could come too...”

His mouth has fallen slightly open, dark curls hanging low on his forehead in front of his eyes. When he finally speaks, it sounds strained.

“Are you serious? Don’t tease me, Princess.”

If Clarke had any doubt before, that Bellamy wanted this as much as her, wanted _her_ , the barely contained joy in his eyes now would dismiss it completely. She reaches out, pale fingers impossibly soft on the tanned skin of his face. The ring glints in the late afternoon sunlight, as though announcing itself, it’s permanence.

“Tomorrow,” she repeats, lips curving around the word, tugging into a smile so wide it almost hurts her cheeks. His own face remains solemn.

“I love you.” He says, serious. He says it all the time, but there’s something heavy in it now, something painful. She closes her eyes, knowing that feeling, like she will never get enough of him, never tire of loving him, like they have all the time in the world and it still doesn’t seem like enough. When she opens her eyes he’s still staring at her.

“I love you too,” she mumbles, laying her palm against his cheek. They stay like that until his phone chirps, and he sighs at a text from his sister, asking where they are.

“I guess we should go tell her,” he says, raising an eyebrow. Clarke snorts.

“This should be interesting.”

.-.-.-.-.

“I’ve got something to tell you.” Clarke and Octavia say in unison, then blink at each other. Clarke and Bellamy are barely in the door, having walked straight into the backyard through the side gate, Clarke dropping the box of pastries on the dining table set out on the sun-bleached deck.

“You first.” Clarke decides, dropping into one of the wooden patio chairs Lincoln made. Octavia glances at her husband, then shrugs. Beside her, Bellamy tenses.

“Okay, do you guys remember Linc’s cousin Daisha?”

They nod.

“She’s pregnant.”

“Oh.” Clarke’s mouth drops open. “Isn’t she sixteen?”

Lincoln sighs.

“Yeah. She was afraid to tell her mom, so she came to us.”

Bellamy frowns.

“That’s a pretty big thing to have to deal with as a teenager. Is she doing alright?”

Octavia smiles at him, the soft, sweet smile she reserves for when people she loves reminds them why she loves them.

“She’s okay. We’ve been trying to help her out, you know, make sure she knows her options. And…” She pauses. “She’s decided to give the baby up.”

“Okay…” Bellamy says slowly, obviously unsure of what that has to do with them. “I mean, that’s a responsible decision. It can’t be easy, though.”

“That’s actually where ours news comes in.” Octavia glances at Lincoln, who holds out his hand. She takes it, lacing their fingers together and turning back to face Bellamy and Clarke. “We’re going to adopt the baby.”

Clarke blinks, feeling Bellamy practically vibrate with tension beside her. She sucks in a breath.

“I seriously don’t mean this in a condescending way, but…” she stares at her friend. “Are you sure?”

The brunette nods easily, like she was expecting the question.

“Yeah. I mean, we get that we’re young, and it’s going to be a lot, probably kind of complicated, but the truth is we’ve been talking about starting a family, and…I don’t know. This way Daisha can know where the baby goes, hopefully she’ll feel like we can give them a good home, and we get to start a family a little sooner.”

“We’ve talked about it a lot,” Lincoln adds. “I know it probably seems like we’re just doing this because of the circumstances but we’re ready. Or,” he smiles knowingly, “-as ready as you can be, anyways.”

His eyes, along with Octavia’s, drift over to Bellamy. The elder Blake has remained uncharacteristically silent throughout the past few minutes, and even Clarke finds his expression unreadable. She squeezes his hand, both a warning and a reassurance, then smiles widely at the other couple.

“That’s great, you guys. I’m really happy for you!” Letting go of Bellamy’s hand, she jumps up, throwing her arms around Octavia when the brunette gets to her feet as well. “I think he’s just processing,” she whispers in the other girl’s ear. “Give him a minute.”

She moves to hug Lincoln as well, then pulls back, feeling a prickling behind her eyes. It’s not like her to get so emotional about things, but she writes it off to a long and hard couple months.

She startles a little when Bellamy stands abruptly behind her, then sees the emotion in his eyes, her lips curling as she realizes why he’s been so quiet.

“God,” he says gruffly, pulling his sister into what looks like a bone crushing hug. “You’re just-you’re so grown up. First you get married and now you’re having a kid-” he pulls back, setting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m really proud of you, O.”

She smiles tearily back at him, pulling him in for another hug.

“Thanks Bell,” she sniffles. “That means a lot to me.”

When they’ve all settled back into their chairs, the smell of barbecue wafting in on the light summer breeze, Lincoln slaps his knee.

“Oh, Octavia, we forgot the other thing.”

Octavia sits upright in her chair.

“Shit, right.” She turns to her brother and Clarke, clasping her hands together. “How would you two feel about being godparents?”

Bellamy chokes on his beer. Clarke pats him sympathetically on the back, turning to the blue eyed brunette eyeing them nervously.

“I think that’s Bellamy for we’d be honoured,” she says, beaming again. He coughs, then nods at his sister, eyes watering.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Great!” Octavia claps her hands together. “Now that all that’s settled, what was your news?”

Clarke hesitates.

“I don’t want to step on your moment…” she says slowly. Octavia rolls her eyes.

“Shut up. Wait, you’re not pregnant too are you?”

Bellamy chokes on his beer again.

“No,” Clarke assures both of them hastily. “Not pregnant. Just, um, getting married.”

Octavia raises an eyebrow.

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?” Clarke asks indignantly. “I gave you a way better reaction than that when you got engaged!”

“Wait, you weren’t already engaged?” Lincoln pipes up from his seat, frowning in confusion.

“I mean, sort of,” Bellamy admits with a shrug. Clarke smacks his shoulder.

“You’re not helping.”

He just smirks at her, amused.

 “What Clarke was _trying_ to say, before you offended her, is that we’re getting married _tomorrow_.”

Octavia’s mouth drops open, and her eyes dart between Clarke and Bellamy.

“Seriously?”

Clarke sighs.

“Yeah.”

“So is it, like are you doing a city hall thing?”

“Um,” Clarke shrugs. “I guess. We just…we want to be married already.”

“That’s adorable,” Octavia coos. “Like, nauseating. But very sweet.”

“Mhmm.” Bellamy finishes his drink and reaches for another, Lincoln hopping to his feet to check on the grill.

“You want to be our witness?”

Clarke’s soon-to-be sister-in-law claps excitedly.

“Hell yes! Wait, do you have a dress? Are you going to do a reception?”

“I think that’s my cue to go help Lincoln with the burgers,” Bellamy mutters, getting to his feet. He ruffles Octavia’s hair affectionately as he walks by. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Octavia rounds on Clarke, waiting.

“I think I need another beer if you’re going to look at me like that,” Clarke says with a sigh. Octavia waves her hand dismissively.

“Tell me everything.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

“I’m exhausted,” Clarke groans, flopping face first onto the bed. Somewhere to her left, Bellamy chuckles, his phone beeping when he plugs it in to charge.

“This honeymoon is off to a good start,” he says wryly, the bed dipping as he sits next to her. She rolls onto her side, propping her head up on her hand to stare at him.

“Did you want one?”

He frowns.

“One what?”

“A honeymoon. This was all so fast I never even thought about going away. But we probably could.”

Bellamy just shrugs, looking as tired as she feels. It’s been a long day, and it turns out getting married is kind of exhausting, especially when Octavia is involved. The actual ceremony had been relatively quick, as had the paperwork, Clarke wearing a white sundress and Bellamy in slacks and an oxford not quite buttoned all the way. It was casual, and as intimate as it could be considering they were in a court room with a handful of other couples and a judge.

But the real surprise had been when they went back to Octavia’s and found the house overflowing with people.

“I hadn’t really thought about it either.” He yawns. “We can talk about it later, I just want to pass out. I had a feeling O would throw us a party, but that was-”

“A rager,” Clarke agrees, scooting a few feet to the side so her new husband can slide under the sheets. “I can’t believe Eddie was there. How did she even have time to fly him out?”

Bellamy hits the light, and Clarke tugs off her bra, slipping under the covers and resting her head against his chest.

“What, he didn’t tell you?” His voice vibrates against her cheek, and she closes her eyes, soothed by it.

“Tell me what?”

“He’s moving out here. He keeps saying he’s looking to start a new band, thinks the West Coast music scene is fresher, or something like that. I think he’s just moving to be closer to Reyes.”

Clarke hums, surprised. She’d noticed the mechanic and the musician acting cozy at the party, and knows Raven has been texting him a lot, but she didn’t think it was that serious.

“You know, I think he’d actually be good for her. And Raven won’t take any of his shit, so they might make an okay couple,” she muses. He doesn’t say anything, fingers stroking lightly through her hair.

“Are we really going to spend our wedding night talking about those two?”

Clarke tries to stifle a yawn, but Bellamy’s chuckle tells her she doesn’t succeed.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “That party was just really _long_. I didn’t even know we knew that many people.”

“S’fine. You can fulfill your wifely duties in the morning.”

She smacks him, happy warmth spreading through her chest when his laugh rumbles through the bed.

“I thought the novelty of you calling me that would wear off after like the first ten people you introduced me to,” she sighs, “-but I still like it.”

“Mmm, me too.”

“Night, Mr. Griffin”

He laughs again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Night, Mrs. Griffin.”

.-.-.-.-.-.

Barely a week later, Clarke is hunched over the toilet bowl, heaving. She’s already emptied her stomach of breakfast and dinner from the night before when she hears the front door open. Another wave of nausea rolls through her and she groans, dipping her head back inside the bowl.

“Clarke?”

She wipes at her mouth miserably, just as the bathroom door opens and Bellamy sticks his head in. He takes in the sight of her, curled around the porcelain, and frowns.

“Hey,” she says weakly, pulling herself into a sitting position. “How did it go with the publisher?”

“It was fine.” He crosses the room to squat in front of her, pressing the back of his hand against her forehead. “You don’t feel warm. You looked okay when I left, what happened?” His hands, so strong, are almost painfully soft against her skin when he cups her cheeks, and she feels a little better instantly.

“I don’t know. I felt fine all morning and then all of a sudden I-” But the rest of her sentence is lost as she rips away from his hands and retches back into the toilet. Nothing comes out, she doesn’t think there’s anything left to, and she turns to fix him with a watery stare. “You feel fine, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking almost guilty for it. “So probably not food poisoning. The flu?”

“I’m not achy or anything,” she says tiredly, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes.

“What can I do?” Bellamy asks softly, and she smiles despite the taste of bile in her mouth.

“Distract me. What did your publisher say?”

There’s a soft thud, and Clarke opens her eyes to see Bellamy sitting on the floor across from her.

“Uh, good. They agreed to give me another extension. And I got a new editor.”

 “That’s good,” she sighs. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Princess.” He reaches out to tuck a few stray hairs out of her face. The contact doesn’t make her stomach roll, and she suddenly realizes the nausea is completely gone, disappeared as fast as it came on. Something niggles at the back of her mind. “Oh, and O called, apparently Daisha got her due date. Baby’s supposed to come in November.”

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat, mouth falling open.

“What-what did you say?”

He gives her a strange look.

“Daisha’s due in November.” His eyes widen at the look of shock on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I-oh god.” She counts backwards in her head, staring vacantly at a black spot on the tile. How can she possibly have missed this?

“Clarke, you’re scaring me.”

His voice brings her back, and she exhales shakily, wincing at the concern on his face.

“We-I don’t think I have the flu.”

“Okay?” His brows knit together in confusion. “So what-wait-” his face goes slack as he makes the connection, mouth dropping open to match her own. “You…you’re-”

“Pregnant,” she breathes, suddenly terrified. “I don’t know, maybe-”

“But-” Bellamy seems to be struggling for words now, a look Clarke can only describe as panic settling over his features. “How?”

“I didn’t think-I’ve been all over the place since the Kolberg thing,” she says dazedly, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve been late a couple of times before and it was nothing. When it happened this time I didn’t think anything of it. But-”

“What?”

When Clarke glances over at Bellamy she’s startled to see his jaw twitching angrily.

“Bellamy-”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“I would have told you if it had turned out to be something!” She snaps at him, irritated. “It’s not like I was keeping secrets, but it was always resolved before I even got around to taking a test.”

His face softens.

“I’m sorry, it’s not-I’m just surprised.”

“Yeah, well me too,” she replies, a little shrilly. God, how can this have happened? She’s always so careful, has always been, but-

She groans, dropping her face into her hands.

“-e anbts.” Her words are muffled against her palms.

“What?”

She looks back up at him, sighing.

“The antibiotics I was taking for that ear infection.” She hadn’t had any real, lasting damage from the post-Emmy’s abduction nightmare, but the swelling in her brain had caused her to have less fluid than usual in her ears, and it had resulted in a minor infection. “They must have messed up my birth control, god I’m so _stupid-_ ”

“That was…” Bellamy falls silent, thinking. “Like eight weeks ago. So if you _are_ pregnant, that would make you-”

“Between six and seven weeks, probably.” She guesses, thinking back. Her gaze falls on his face, trying desperately to read him. “I’m sorry, I should have known better, I went to med school for fucks sake-”

“Wait-” His hand shoots out, catching her by the wrist. “Clarke, stop.”

She blinks at him.

“You can’t…god, don’t _apologize_.” His voice breaks at the end, and when she shivers he tugs her forward, wrapping her in his arms.

“What are we going to do?” She asks, voice muffled into his shirt. He pulls back to look at her, face wary.

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“I…” she trails off, thinking. “I know we didn’t plan this, and we _just_ got married, and the past year has been awful, but-” She bites her lip. “I can’t really imagine not keeping it.”

Bellamy blows out a breath.

“I-me neither. I think.” He gives her a shaky smile, and she returns it. They might not be ready, but-

It’s her and Bellamy. There’s no one in the world she’d rather do this with. She just hadn’t planned on starting so _soon_.

“Okay,” she says quietly, wondering at the clash of joy and fear that’s currently warring inside her. “We should get some tests.”

“Right.” He gets to his feet, extending a hand. She takes it, feeling drained from her morning of puking and the possible baby hanging like a sword above their head.

.-.-.-.

Half an hour later they’re staring at three identical pregnancy tests, lined up on the ledge of the bathroom sink.

“One line means…”

He knows. She knows he knows. He read the box. And there’s something in his voice that she can’t quite make out.

“Not pregnant,” she says dully. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “That’s…good right?” Clarke doesn’t know how to answer that. Part of her can’t help but feel an acute sense of loss at the news. But the other part…

“Is it _awful_ that I’m relieved?” She wonders, wincing as the words fly off her tongue involuntarily. He catches her shoulders under his arm, spinning her into him for a suffocating hug. She squeezes her eyes shut against the hot sting of tears.

“No,” he says firmly. “Look, we just got married, we’ve barely had any time to enjoy just being together. You know I want kids, but…”

“I kind of want you to myself for a little while,” Clarke admits. The words feel almost condemning on her tongue.

“Yeah.” He tucks a blonde curl behind her ear, face heartbreakingly tender. “We have time. Later, when we’re ready, we can talk about it again.”

“Okay.” She presses her face into his neck, breathing in his familiar earth and pepper scent.

“I love you, Clarke Griffin.” He says, drawing her into a slow kiss that feels melancholy and celebratory all in one. When they break away, she swipes at the tears clinging to her lashes.

“I love you, too. No kids for now, but someday?”

“Someday,” he agrees.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Two months later they’re actively trying.

A year later Jacob Eridanus Blake is born, becoming instantly beloved by his cousin Aurora.

Bellamy publishes his first full length non-fiction book, _Spacewalker: The Archer Collins Story_ , just before Jake’s second birthday. Aurora is the flower girl at Raven and Eddie’s wedding, Jake the ring-bearer.

Octavia and Lincoln adopt a pair of twins when Aurora is five, naming them Caelum and Calliope.

Bellamy and Clarke decide that one kid is enough, especially when Jake turns out to have picked up his father’s nose for trouble and Clarke’s self-righteous attitude. He gets detention for spray-painting a mural of the Flood of Deucalion on a dumpster in eighth grade. Bellamy takes him out for ice cream.

Raven and Eddie adopt dogs, but they babysit often. Eddie teaches Jake how to swear in three different languages. Raven teaches Aurora how to replace a gearbox.

It’s a different life than Clarke imagined, but it’s perfect. And it all started with an unexpected house guest.


End file.
